The Albion Hero and the Auroran Legend
by Fluff Nugget
Summary: The princess' path after fleeing the castle is clear: revolution. But fate is a devious tale-spinner and chance a peculiar scene-setter and a tapestry weaves and convulses in its narrative. This is the story of an Albionian Hero and an Auroran Legend.
1. Foreword

**Foreword**

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><p>Hello everyone and welcome to my Fable III fanfic.<p>

This is a fanfic which showcases the Princess as the main character and occurs almost exclusively in the Fable III world. The goal of this fanfic is to have it interwoven with the actual story of the game…because just plain ol' narrating the plotline would be boring. In this matter, many characters from the actual game will be seen as well as some of my own original characters I've imagined to fit into the Fable world in order to flesh it out and make this fanfic my own.

The fanfic is rated 'M' for 'Mature' in that there is bound to be cursing, violence, and sexual situations and innuendos placed sporadically throughout the writing. There is also a lot of English (British) slang which, while not offensive to Americans, may be highly offensive to those from the United Kingdom. Fable III is also rated 'M' for 'Mature' for many of the same reasons (sex, alcohol, violence), so I figure if you've played the game, you know what you're getting into reading a fic.

There will be romance in later chapters and potentially graphic romance scenes (this is not to be confused with _pornographic_ mind you). There will be explicit warning at the heading of the chapters that contain such content if you wish to abstain from the content. The chapter with overt sexual content will also be labeled with asterisks (***) for those of you who just read fanfics to get your rocks off.

I haven't played Fable III in a long time and recently created a new game. I plan on uploading new chapters and installments bi-weekly at the least. What I write in my fanfic is real-time where I am in the game. As I said before, I'm writing a fanfic which weaves into and around the main Fable III story line, so spoilers are a potential hazard.

A pronunciation guide is included to help with some of the more difficult/strange names (I will be pulling some Gaelic and Welsh ones and those are often tricky). If you really don't give a damn, feel free to ignore it.

Here is the Google Docs Link: .com/document/d/1KCyRcY_/edit?hl=en_US

I thoroughly hope you enjoy the fanfic. Responses, reviews, comments, critiques, questions, what-have-you are always welcome (although this is my first fanfic ever, so please wait until I'm at least through Chapter 2 before chewing my head off ;) )

Thank you,

Fluff Nugget


	2. Prologue

**Prologue**

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><p>Keturah clenched her fist, her nails biting into her palm through the fine fabric of her glove. Tears of fury, frustration, and futility fogged her eyes as she glowered up at her brother. He stood like a carrion bird—perched up on the steps—looking down grimly at the carnage that would take place at his hand. The dark circles beneath his eyes, borne of tiredness she knew, lent themselves to his sinister appearance. He practically preened himself from on high, smug in his victory; he seemed far too proud of the the fact that he was the harbinger of a man's death.<p>

The people she'd 'saved' clamored around her, their hands brushed against her arm, her shoulder, expressing gratitude at having chosen their lives over that of Elliot. Rage numbed her. She did not feel them. She pretended not to hear them. She did not want their gratitude. Red throbbed at the edges of her vision as she watched the guards take Elliot away to be executed. She reached out to clasp his fingers, but he was taken from her grasp.

"It's alright," he assured her. She saw no fear in his young eyes. Foolish. Idealistic. Dying for these people would change nothing. Her brother had sought to teach her a lesson, to teach these people a lesson… what it was, she could hardly fathom. Anger made her unsympathetic. Elliot would die and he would be nothing but a meddlesome, smudged footnote on the pages ofAlbion's bloody legacy. The brave boy who sacrificed himself for them would mean nothing. Instead, it would be her name, Keturah's name that they remembered. She would be "The kind princess who spared us." Bah. She had chosen to save them, but she had not died for them.

"I will _never_ forgive you for this!" Keturah managed, her voice quivering with the restrained tears of vehemence. She glared at her brother, wishing she could do something—_anything_—to eliminate his stoic reserve.

His gaze leveled with hers after seeing Elliot escorted out. "Good," he stated simply, "Then you will never forget it."


	3. Mercenaries

**Chapter One**

_Mercenaries_

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><p>It had been a long couple of weeks since Walter, Jasper, and Keturah escaped from the castle. As a princess, she lived in a state of ignorant bliss. She <em>heard<em> how the people of Albion suffered, but the reality of it all had never truly been applicable. Poverty, hunger, disease…they had not existed in her perfect world of banquets, dress-fittings, sword-play, and etiquette lessons. She had Jasper, her servant, and Roderick, her faithful border collie. When being scolded for not correctly bending one's pinkie while sipping tea, it was difficult to think of the factory workers in Bowerstone Industrial. The plumes of smoke and soot that embodied their world were nothing more than an inconvenient backdrop to a lovely view of the sea. This was not to say that she did not care, however. Keturah truly did have a kind a heart. But the cruelty that Elliot spoke of, the terrible deeds performed by her brother… none of it seemed real. Her deficiency in knowledge of political matters in the kingdom was thankfully supplemented by input from her childhood friend and significant other. Idealistic and boyish as he was, he kept her well-informed. He always spoke of wanting to do good in the world, to help. She was not so simple-minded and romantic as to believe that civility could solve problems. Violence did—it was not always the correct way to solve problems and often generated more strife as a result of being implemented. Logan was to learn that the hard way. Walter had been right; Albion needed no less than a revolution.

The day Elliot was executed, she'd made a speech to the servants to encourage them, despite Logan's tyranny. Something strange had overtaken her. She was not normally so eloquent, despite hours of propriety, speech, and etiquette lessons. People frightened Keturah and she was not at all a social creature. She spoke when she needed to and remained quiet much of the time. But she had felt her heart go to the servants and understood their fear in the uncertainty of an impending civil war between the King's soldiers and the disheartened factory workers. Keturah was not as idealistic as Elliot, but that was not to say that she did not have her morals and could not act upon the empathy she felt for others.

_Elliot_. She sighed. He'd been such a sweet boy. He'd have been a good man.

"That is quite a heavy sound, Princess," Sir Walter said, striding toward her.

Keturah shrugged. "I'm nobody's princess anymore, Walter. You needn't refer to me by any flamboyant title." Yes, the plan was for her to lead the damn revolution. But she hardly felt like a princess. She did not want to _be_ a princess if it required deciding who should live and who should die, as she had with Elliot and the protesters. She did not want that power. The sisters of Fate could keep it.

Sir Walter chuckled, clapping her on the shoulder and indicating for her to walk toward the Ye Quill and Quandary pub in Brightwall. She followed demurely.

"Now, now, Keturah. The people need a princess; you know that as well as I. Even in those threadbare garments, you look regal."

Keturah picked idly at the Highlander clothing she wore. "They're not _terribly_ threadbare," she argued. "I stick out like a sore thumb in the Dweller garb in a place like Brightwall. At least I don't wear the damned hat the tailor sold me with the bloody clothing."

Walter laughed. "I suppose that's true." He glanced back at her fleetingly, continuing around the plaza where the shop vendors were beginning to lift the glass covers of their wax lanterns and puff out the flickering flame that had illuminated their wares in the twilight. They glanced at the pair Keturah and Walter made. She felt their eyes and shivered as gooseflesh rose on her skin. Sir Walter had been an advisor under her father. The fine, practical red garments he wore made him easy enough to distinguish. Alone, Keturah could pass idly through the town with people thinking little of her past noticing she shared a likeness with the young princess who'd rescued the protestors from the cruel hands of the king by sacrificing her own lover. Keturah grimaced. Of course, those protesters were now under house arrest, unable to work and unable to pay rent as repercussion for their actions that day. Logan may not have killed them, but he certainly hadn't made their lives any easier.

"You were successful, then?" He assumed, seeing as she'd returned with the music box from the old library. The blind old woman had appeared to her again, becoming her through the portal. She did not understand why she felt compelled to follow. A sane person would have turned and run from a giant, glowing, vaporous mass that froze one's surroundings.

"Indeed I was," affirmed Keturah, though it was rather unnecessary.

"Bloody marvelous!" Laughed Walter. He clapped her on the shoulder. "And I see you've acquired some new fixings. Take after your father with the sword?"

Keturah's expression tightened. "I prefer the rifle, honestly." The sword was heavy and she was clumsy with it, having broken Walter's sword _once _out of sheer dumb luck. It was more likely she'd run the damn blade through her leg than do any damage to an assailant. And she didn't trust herself to use the magic properly. She had a bad habit of making the ring of fire a bit too large and lobbing the fireballs inaccurately. Jasper had nearly been singed when she used the spell on the bats.

Walter smirked and shrugged. "I suppose you can't be as perfect as he was." His tone was light and teasing. It belonged back at the castle, back when there was some semblance of order to the world; it was nice to hear it in the strangeness her milieu had become.

"I don't like having to wash the blood off of me," Keturah defended. "The stuff begins to stink like you wouldn't believe after walking between here and the damn Dweller camp running favors for people."

Walter let out barking laughter at the sound of that. "And you tell me not to call you a princess! You're certainly stuffy enough about your appearance to act like one!"

Keturah smiled despite herself. "Just because I no longer live in the palace doesn't mean I have to smell like balvarine piss every day. There is no sin in taking pride in one's appearance."

"Yes, I suppose not…which is precisely why you may order me strung up by my toes once you're made aware of what I have in mind."

Keturah became wary. "Go on."

Walter partially evaded the subject. "You'll be glad to know that I have some information on the mercenaries Sabine mentioned," he began as they crossed the bridge. "They're lead by a man called Saker. He used to be a soldier, but found he had more commonality with bandits and cut-throats than the military." Walter made a vague gesture to the west of Brightwall, toward Mistpeak. "His men are holed up in a small fortress in the mountains, so it won't be easy to get in. But I have a plan. Come with me."

He led her up the stairs to the second floor of the Inn. The familiar smells of honey mead and smoke filled her nostrils. The flue of the great, central fireplace was not very well aerated and the smoke wafted out into the tavern and out the doors. Some found the musty smell pleasant. Keturah did not entirely mind the smell so long as she was not on the second floor and suffocated by the fumes.

Walter led them to a table and paused, turning to face her with his back partially to a chair occupied by a slumbering form. "I've found an answer to our little mercenary problem," Walter stated, tapping the slobbering mercenary with his worn boot.

Keturah stared, dumbfounded, at the passed-out form of the mercenary laying across the table. Even through the smoke, she could tell that he'd urinated himself in his drunken stupor. Loud breaths inflated his thorax and repulsive, sloppy snores vibrated his lips, making him look comically like a displeased billy-goat. This couldn't be the leader. She'd seen the posters, heard the whispers, knew what the guards had said about Saker– the man was rumored to be a bear. This unconscious clown – with his tattered clothing, obvious addiction to drinking, shoddy weapons, and tally-mark tattoos that suggested a compensation for anatomical lacking – was more of a clumsy cub.

"One of the mercenaries," Walter provided, seeing her confusion. "A cold-blooded killer," he added, as though she needed more of a justification to shrink back in disgust. "His name is Clarence, but everybody calls him Jimmy. He was drinking in the pub all day and generally making life unpleasant for everyone." Walter's eyes sparkled mischievously and a lopsided grin peeked out from beneath his pronounced mustache and beard. "It wasn't hard to get him completely picked. These young thugs – bloody light-weights if you ask me."

"Walter, you didn't," Keturah muttered, peering at the old soldier to search for any signs of incoherency.

"I'm entirely sober," he huffed, sounding almost offended. The lightness in his eyes remained. "Anyways, take his clothes and you'll have a free pass into their camp. Just try not to think about what those stains might be...in the meantime I'll talk to people about getting food out to the Dwellers." Walter half grimaced, reaching a hand up and scratching the back of his head thoughtfully. Briefly, fleetingly, the phantom of youth overtook him. She could imagine him twenty years younger, with a similar expression as he contemplated a tactical decision. The handsomeness remained on his features as he'd aged, though his eyes were more tired; no doubt Logan's doing.

"They won't have much to spare but they're kind people," he continued. "They'll just need a little convincing. Anyway, good luck with Saker. It'll be your first taste of real battle, but I know you'll do just fine, particularly with that new rifle. Still a bloody shame you don't continue your sword training."

Keturah flushed slightly as she moved toward the unconscious mercenary. Walter helped her maneuver the drunken man out of his clothing until he was left in his skivvies. Dress-up was all well and good, but this was a bit much. Walking around in the reeking excrement, blood, spit, and Avo-only-knew-what-else-covered garments was hardly her idea of time well-spent. He couldn't truly expect her to dress as a man, could he?

Oh, but he did.

"You'll need to look around town for some of the extra things. Mercenaries may be dumb brutes, but even they'll notice you don't have his beard or tattoos. You'll probably want to get rid of that braid, too. And your," Walter paused, searching for polite terms, "your feminine features. Binding some cloth 'round your chest should do the trick."

Keturah's light shade of pink at stripping the man bloomed into a bright scarlet. She knew Walter was simply speaking technically and that there was nothing scandalous meant. Still, to a lady growing up in the castle being trained to refer to her legs as _appendages_ (so that she did not assault the physician's ears with her crass vocabulary) it was rather shocking. Practicality dictated that she not get flustered over language. This was necessary and…honestly, it sort of thrilled her. She felt no camaraderie with mercenaries, but that did not quell her curiosity. Raping and pillaging were hardly things which she enjoyed or attempted, for that matter, but every story had perspectives; perhaps these mercenaries could be bribed into aiding her in the revolution against Logan.

"Any questions, Princess?" Walter prompted

Keturah smiled wryly, gathering the clothing over her arm and stepping away from Jimmy. "Would you prefer to be hung by your toes, or your thumbs?"

To say that she felt odd was an understatement.

Keturah's braid had been cut, her hair left in a mud-colored, ragged mop atop her head. She simply refused to shave it, not trusting herself with the razor and unwilling to go to the barber to have it done safely and properly. She managed to crop her hair closely enough with scissors and had wrapped the mercenary's bandana around her head to try and hide the sparse locks. Jimmy had been bald and shaven. Hopefully his compatriots did not take ask her to remove the bandana.

Her breasts had been bound, pressed into near non-existence by the cloth encircling her chest. She really wasn't too well endowed to begin with and the extra padding did well to give her more of a masculine shape. The coat added to that. The leather pads which existed beneath the black and navy cloth did not fit correctly to her body, but they served well by broadening her chest and shoulders and bulking her arms considerably. She'd had to stuff the gloves with straw and bind them shut so that her wrists did not seem out of proportion relative to her now-large arms, shoulders, and legs.

She'd gathered false facial hair and crafted and dyed it into a form that resembled Jimmy's beard. Briefly, she'd considered just going with the excuse of, "I shaved," should the other mercenaries ask. Had she been mimicking a boy rather than a man, the excuse would have worked. Frankly, the false beard, attached at the chin with sticky glue and behind the ears with hooked metal wire, made her face look sharper, more gaunt and more wolfish, mimicking the animalistic hunger that could be seen on Jimmy's face.

The tattoos had been the simplest task: plain charcoal and plant-based paint which stained the skin for a time. It would eventually fade and be worn away, but it served its purpose. She'd also wadded a roll of cloth and stuck it at the fork in her legs to mimic manhood.

With what little money she'd made from playing the lute for folk in Brightwall, she'd managed to bribe a guard into taking the true Jimmy into custody, at least for a week's time. The law enforcement was pitiful, to say the least, in light of the King's levies. The soldiers were present more for intimidation purposes than they were for any actual protection. Any members of the old, loyal, caring guard unit had been banished to Mourningwood. She'd been present for that decision by Logan and remembered the uncomfortable hum of sorrow that chilled her. She had watched the light in Major Swift's eyes dim and his hope crumbled under Logan's steely commands and orders. Sad as it was, she'd admired the major's conviction and determination to Albion. He and Walter were men whom she truly looked up to. They were not afraid of her brother and stood for a purpose that went beyond themselves, just as her father had so long ago and just as Elliot had a few short weeks ago. So must she.

Keturah waded across the small, stream that marked the territory of Saker and his mercenaries. The rough-hewn gates loomed taller and taller the closer she got to the gate and she hastily tugged the tri-corner hat down so that the men on watch would not get a good look at her face. There was one thing she hadn't been able to change: her eye color.

"Oi, Jimmy!" Called one of the men from the gate.

Keturah raised a balled fist in acknowledgement, concentrating hard on making her stance more masculine.

"Back from killing Dwellers, eh?" the other man chortled and reached over to his left to tug on a leaver. There was a loud cranking sound of wood being tugged on and the heavy door to the mercenary camp opened. "Come on in."

Keturah nodded and hastily moved inside the gate. Heavy wood groaned closed behind her. The men returned to their posts, not paying her much mind as she continued up the trail between the gnarled tree-stumps and past more defensive, sharpened trunks. The trail took on a rough fascine of fagots and the wood looked well-worn. She was doubtful that the mercenaries had put much effort into maintaining their camp in mind of travelers who might pass through. Of course, she supposed that even mercenaries needed supplies and the like. It was impractical to assume that they simply stole _everything_. A trader who had, perhaps, negotiated a contract with the mercenaries could do a fair bit of business, offering wares at discounted prices in exchanged for a guarantee against raids.

"Oi, Jimmy!"

Keturah turned hesitantly toward the call, feeling as though needles were prickling at the back of her spine. A lanky man approached her, his outfit much the same as her own and his hair completely hidden and bound by a bandana sporting the red emblem of deserters and traitors. His features were sharp and hard – everything from his brows to the planes of his body. A thick, dark beard covered his cheeks, chin, and upper lip.

"Where 'ave you been?" the man continued.

Keturah pressed her lips together and stared forward intently, determined not to let him see her confusion. "Brightwall," she answered, keeping her voice deep in her throat and rasping it where she could.

The man stopped within an arm's length of her, his eyes assessing her shrewdly. They were the most eerie shade of blue she'd ever seen in her entire life. In fact, they were almost colorless. Beneath the thick, angled brows, she could read an intelligence in his gaze that unnerved her. It had not existed in the men at the gate and was clearly not seen in Clarence. This man before her was different, possessing a harshness born of tactical knowledge and cruelty rather than brazen stupidity and selfish desire.

"What 'appened to your voice?" the man inquired, raising an eyebrow.

Close as he was, Keturah was able to distinguish the faintest tracings of marks along the left side of his face that cascaded down the skin of his exposed neck and she could see them begin to dim and trickle down the anterior portion of his forearm and fade at his fingertips. They looked like shadows, almost, of the spots and markings of some great predatory cat from the farthest reaches of Aurora.

She blinked to force her attention on him again. "There was a trader in town touting about 'ow 'e 'ad the best drinks in all of Albion that could knock the strongest men flat on his arse with one swallow." She shrugged. "Naturally, I took up the challenge." Keturah raised a brow and cleared her throat loudly. "You think this is bad, you should 'ave 'eard the squeaky notes coming outta my pipes after that drink."

The spotted-man's features remained inquisitive or a time before the crackling of a smile appeared beneath his beard. He said nothing.

"Jimmy! Will!" Snapped a mercenary further down the hill. "Get your arses down 'ere! I'll 'ave none o' yer belly-achin' if ye dun' get food 'cause o' yer slownesses!"

Will moved off without a word.

Keturah's heart was still in her throat from being called out to speak. She knew that the story of how her voice had changed was ridiculous, but somewhat believable. It was not entirely unheard of for someone's voice to change as a result of some strange poultice - silly, but not she'd been a child, a trader had ventured to the castle with poultices and bottles that made men whinny like horses and women bark like dogs.

She followed Will down the hill and fell into step with the others by observation. A common line had been formed by the men and each was given a wooden bowl before marching before a very voluptuous woman standing guard of an equally voluptuous pot.

"Evenin', Bertha," said one of the men, showing a yellow grin. "What's the delicacy fer tonight."

Bertha smiled, flicking long, curly black hair over her shoulder. Keturah guessed her to be in her mid-thirties, as the wrinkles in her skin were faint and the light in her eyes still spoke of youth. "Nuthin' but the best fer my little mercs, Charles," she returned, ladling a large amount of hearty-looking stew into Charles' bowl.

Charles chuckled, his dirty fingers moving around the bowl to catch any drippings of soup and slip them into his mouth. He then received a ration of bread and moved to benches constructed of logs to sit near the fire and gossip and jabber.

Will followed after Charles solemnly and silently, almost monkish in his behavior. Bethera smiled at him cheerily, but did not speak, and Will moved along. Keturah stood before the large woman, gripping the bowl tightly to keep her hands from shaking.

"Evenin', Jimmy!" Bertha said loudly, causing more than a few heads to turn.

Keturah resisted the urge to duck down and instead smiled brightly to Bertha in return. "Evenin'" she replied.

Bertha reached out and clapped her thick, heavy hand on Ketura's forehead, causing the princess to nearly stumble back with the sudden force. "Jimmy, m'dear! Your voice sounds terrible. You sick, love? Need some o' Bertha's gypsy potions?"

Keturah chuckled and shook her head. "No, I've 'ad my fill of potions fer the rest of m'life, thank ya." It was difficult to make her tongue fall into the lazy, dropped syllabic speech of the mercenaries. She'd had enunciation beaten into her as a child. Well, more or less. When Logan took the throne at 16, he'd insisted she be made into a proper lady.

"Indeed?" Bertha said, eyes widening as she filled Keturah's bowl and sent her on her way. "You'll 'ave to tell me the story sometime."

Keturah took her bowl and seated herself beside Charles. The older man had already cleaned his bowl and was noisily slurping out the remaining soup. Slowly and methodically, he tore at his hard bread and used it to sop up the soup in his bowl, chewing loudly and smacking his lips in satisfaction. Many of the other men were inhaling their food and rations in a similar manner and Keturah grimaced. She did not know how to eat sloppily. If it weren't for the beard, she'd have gladly made an attempt to shove her face in the bowl and do her best to mimic Rochester.

She glanced up from her soup and caught Will's eyes on her again, cold and assessing. She frowned at him, tipped her bowl to her lips and made the loudest, most disgusting slurping noises she could manage. The stew was delicious, if simple. Potatoes, fennel, carrots, and hearty chunks of venison, rabbit, and squirrel made her belly full halfway through the bowl and she carefully placed the remainder on the ground.

"Jimmy," one of the mercenaries said, tapping her on the shoulder. "Were you out drinkin' in Brightwall again?"

She smiled and nodded with a laugh.

"Well, dun' let anybody ever tell ya that drinkin' alone is bad," the man winked. "Some o' the best times I've ever 'ad!" He clapped her on the shoulder in finality with loud guffaws and retreated back to talking with the man beside him.

Keturah turned to make another attempt at eating her soup, but found that the bowl and the remaining ration of her bread had disappeared. She looked around in confusion.

"Strange of ya to be so clumsy with yer food, Jimmy," Charles chuckled from beside her, "Y'should know better."

"Still 'ungover," she grumbled with a shrug.

"Alright lads! 'oo 'ere is up fer a story!" Called one of the mercenaries, a tall man with a rather pronounced, rounded belly. His nose was red and his face goofy and stupid looking. The silliness belied the man's fighting prowess, however. Even in the near-dark, she could see the ropes and chords of muscles around his arms, hidden cleverly beneath the fat. Keturah had no doubt he was a bear to fight.

"Charles!" called one. "You've got the gift of gab, you old sod! Entertain us a bit, won' ya?"

"M'tooth aches, m'afraid," Charles defended, sounding somewhat put out. "'ave someone else on story duty."

"'ow about you, Mackenzie?" the pot-bellied man suggested.

"I dun' 'ave any good stories! You tell one!"

"All I 'ave are stories of big-breasted wenches writhing atop me in sheer bliss – I wouldn't want t'make the rest o' you lads jealous," the big-bellied man cackled.

"Oi, pack it in! Even Bertha wouldn't touch you."

"And what does that mean?" Bertha demanded, though her tone remained jovial.

_A camp prostitute?_ Keturah thought, staring at Bertha dumbfounded while the arguing went on around her. She'd never seen a real-live prostitute. Her teachers had always painted them as ugly, licentious, snarling imps. Bertha may have been a bit on the plump side, but she was certainly not ugly and certainly not impish. She seemed almost matronly with the way she'd ladled out soup for the men.

"Jimmy 'as a story!" Bertha chimed in suddenly. "Go on, Jimmy! Tell us why yer voice is a mess!"

"Yeah, tell us," chimed in Will. He looked almost like a balvarine with his sharp grin showing under his beard.

"Will, I think tha's the first time I've 'eard you talk," sputtered one of the mercenaries. "Do it again!"

Will's grin disappeared and he leveled his gaze at the mercenary, "I did plenty o' talkin' with yer mum last night – wanted me to pass t'message that she wants yer da' back 'ome and fer you t'get a proper job to 'elp support 'er in 'er old age. But dun' worry," Will winked. "I've taken care of her _important _needs."

"You bastard! I'll knock yer block off, I will!" Snarled the other man, charging across the way at Will, clapped and cheered by the other men.

Will leapt off the log bench quickly and raised his fists and began bouncing on the balls of his feet, taking a boxer's stance. The other mercenary swung wildly at him with fists and Will blocked the clumsy movements with forearms thrust parallel before his face. Again and again, the mercenary struck, cheered on and laughed at by his fellows. Will dodged some blows, blocked others, but never made to strike back. Punches and kicks were thrown, one after the other, until the mercenary had worked himself to fatigue. He panted heavily while Will dropped his arms back to his sides. The mercenary made to take a defensive position, but Will, with lightning quickness, clapped his hands against the other man's temples, sending him stumbling back with a howl. Will then threw a balled fist into the man's belly and whirled quickly with an elbow against the man's already injured skull, sending him spinning to the ground.

When the other mercenary didn't get up, Will spat at the man and returned to his seat, rubbing at where his arms had taken a beating from blocking blows. "'ow about that story, Jimmy," he pressed, as though the entire boxing mach had never occurred.

"Yeah, Jim!' Tell us a funny one!" one man called. The group was seemingly unperturbed by the bit of boxing that had just taken place.

"I want one with romance!" breathed a slender, pale man near the fire.

"Quiet you fairy!" Snapped many of the men.

"Tell us 'bout Brightwall!" Bertha prompted.

"Go on then, Jimmy. Stand up." Charles hoisted Keturah up and shoved her hard into using the log as a podium.

Fear made her insides frozen. She had been nervous speaking before the servants. Now she was particularly terrified. How many of these men were Jimmy's close friends? If she spoke and the both of their vocabularies were radically different, she would be suspect. She hadn't even seen Saker yet and she couldn't fight all of them while their attention was on her. The glint of blades and guns and crossbows was all too clear in the light of setting sun.

"This trader, see, was sellin 'is wares at t'Olde Quill n' Quandry," she started. "He gathered all th'villagers 'round and started boastin' 'bout all these grand potions n' the like that had been manufactured in Bowerstone Industrial with rare ingredients found only in Aurora. Well, let jus' say none o' the villagers were buyin' this quack's bullshit." She hazarded a glance around her. None of the men seemed angry or suspicious and simply sat back to listen to her story. Charles was grinning pleasantly and rubbing his distended belly. Bertha was waving away one of the other men with a hissed "later" and focused on Keturah. Will did not appear at all interested. His head was down, showing her the bright red bird on his bandana, and he was sharpening a dagger with slow, meticulous movement.

"So, 'e tried a new tactic," Keturah continued. "'I 'ave in my possession a terrible concoction from the farthest edges of Aurora. This stuff 'ere is made from the Iwillbloodykillyoumate bush in the caves there and is bound to knock a man on his arse with one sip! 'oo cares to try', 'e said."

"Tha's it, Jimmy!" bellowed one of the mercenaries. "Yer jus' like me! I wouldn't 'ave passed up an opportunity like tha either!"

"Good on ya, Jim!"

"Hush, you lot!" Bertha hissed. "Let 'im finish!"

"So I drank the stuff," Keturah continued with a nod to Bertha. "This shit burned my very insides, it did! Imagine each o' you sordid lot defecating into a cup and mixing it with urine to help it go down yer throat easier." This earned a few laughs from the crowd and a repulsed look from Bertha. "Tasted 'bout the same, too. Anyways, I turned to knock the bastard's bloomin' block off and let out an oath to make Saker proud. 'cept it lost some o' its effectiveness, y'see. My voice sounded like it came from a chipmunk…or a child." She pressed her tongue to the back of her mouth and tucked her chin in and began spouting off a series of curses in the silly voice. She'd done it before to entertain the noble's children in the castle (minus the cursing, of course). It had made them laugh and did likewise with the men. "This 'ere? Residual! I'll be lucky if I'm t'be cured in a week!"

"Thank heavens you dun' sound like tha!" shouted one of the mercenaries, a man whose brutish looks rivaled Boulder's. Tears of laughter poured down his face and into his beard. "I wouldn't be able t'take you seriously, Jimmy!"

Keturah lowered herself and sat down on the log once more. The sun had long since set and the fire made stark shadows on all of the men's faces. Most of them were harsh and cruel. They thought nothing of murdering those who stood in their way, It was they who were the monsters always hissed about in the tales, they who were the ever-constant shadow on people's consciousness during daily activities. Fear of these men mandated the need for a guard that cared for the people, not a guard that simply worked for pay with no heed to the consequences of his actions upon others.

Other men, here, were more sympathetic, and she assumed these were the thieves in the lot, those who did not have the stomach for blood. Their morals were loose, but still existed. Then there were others, like Bertha and the fairy boy who simply seemed as though they would be outcasts elsewhere in Albion. This lot was a strange bunch.

Charles seemed to have forgotten his toothache and stood up beside her to tell another story, this one pertaining to the great Hero Twinblade who'd become the king of bandits in the Old Kingdom. Slowly, tales started being spun around the fire, most concerned with epic battles that had occurred in Albion's past, in the time when many great Heroes were born and bred and sent to the Heroes Guild (or so the myth said) to be trained in the ways of their gift. Of course, the myths of blood and gore, riches and glory, quickly shifted to heated, bragging stories and finally to the men describing the most beautiful, unethical whores who existed either in these legends or in real life. They included tales of Twinblades band of concubines – ugly, but constantly craving men's…affections. Then there were stories of female Heroes, how they often took it upon themselves to find the most skilled of men and bed them in order to produce desirable offspring. Some of the men made claims that they'd lain with a Hero. Many of the men were looking hungrily at Bertha the entire time through these stories.

"Alright, you lot, t'bed!" Called a man who'd been stationed at the gate. "First watch, take shift!"

The small group on watch first, including Charles, departed for the front gates. Nobody grabbed Keturah by the shoulder and ordered her to follow, so she simply wandered behind those who were heading to the large, communal shelters, thankful to rest for a time.

"I dun' think so," Will snarled, strong fingers gripping her collar and dragging her backward. His eyes almost glowed in the moonlight. "You're on watch for the small camp." He gestured with his eyes toward a small sentry post that had been built into an overhanging tree. "And since you went and got yourself a shiny riffle, you're the best one for the job."

He shoved her off in the way of the tree fort and retreated into the shelter. Keturah snarled at him but squared her shoulders and marched off to the sentry post. She scaled the tree easily enough and sat, perched, with her rifle in her lap, watching the empty trail leading down toward the lake of Mistpeak. The moonlight seemed to dance; creating lovely silhouettes of the men on watch and making their shoulders glow lightly. In the darkness, she was safe. The details of her face weren't as clear. They didn't know her from Adam. But she would have to move quickly tonight. It would not be long before 'Jimmy's' odd voice and behavior went from being humorous to downright suspicious.


	4. Murder

**Chapter 2**

_Murder_

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><p>Keturah waited on high alert, until the other mercenaries were asleep, save those on watch. Quietly, carefully, she slipped from her perch back to the ground, meandering further into the camp. She had to find Saker. He had to be dealt with if she was to have the support of the Dwellers. What her plan was, exactly, she hadn't a clue. Sneak into his chambers and kill him in his sleep? That seemed rather cruel and unfair; he hadn't the opportunity to defend himself. Not that it mattered, she supposed. He'd killed plenty of others in a like manner, certainly. Nevertheless, Keturah much preferred the option of bribing him to leave them be rather than killing him, even if it was only a temporary solution and a somewhat dishonest one.<p>

She approached a barred wooden gate with a small cottage attached to it. The structure was built of the large, sharpened tree trunks she'd seen that composed the entrance gate and wooden planks attached it to a porch that wound its way before the log cabin. A guard was outside of the little housing structure and light from within the cottage cast his face in shadows. Inside, she heard labored breathing and deep moans and recognized one of them as female.

Keturah flushed and moved to march away.

"Jimmy?"

_Shit_. She turned to face him meekly.

"'ere to see Bertha?" the guard inquired lightly, almost sleepily. "She's with Mackenzie right now. But I think 'e's the last one. 'ere. I think e's finishin' up."

There was a loud, rumbling groan and a high-pitched gasp. Keturah was glad the darkness hid the scarlet that flooded her face and made bright beacons of her ears. Thoroughly embarrassed, but unwilling to retreat, she stepped up the stairs onto the cabin's porch. A few soft words were exchanged within the walls before Mackenzie, a muscled, scarred, handsome mercenary, stumbled out the door with a goofy-looking grin on his face.

"Jimmy?" said Bertha, standing in the doorway completely unclothed. "Were y' interested in a go? Come on in, then."

Keturah swallowed and trudged through the door, her face still red as a beet. Bertha pushed a small iron bar across the opening of the door behind them and strode easily back into the cabin. The lock was enough to keep honest people honest and little more. Keturah had put her back to the prostitute, quivering with nervousness. She was trapped and didn't know what to do. There was a guard outside and she had no interest in being entertained by a prostitute. If she refused, there would be suspicion. If she accepted, it would be quickly discovered that she did not possess the proper plumbing to be Jimmy.

Bertha's hands fell on her shoulders. Keturah restrained the urge to flinch and instead casually shrugged the older woman's hands off of her. "I'm more in a mood to talk, Bertha," Keturah tried, lamely. "I'm on watch, next. Need the bit o' brains I 'ave left to keep an eye on things."

"Hmm." Was Bertha's only reply at first. Then, "What's the matter, Jimmy? We've done this before. It won't be different–fancy you acting the part o' the blushing virgin." Bertha giggled and moved over to the bed and stretched out. Keturah looked away, repulsed by the writhing movements Bertha used to entice men with her amble breasts and large derriere. She stared blatantly out the window.

"Where's Saker?" Keturah attempted, her jaw tight. "I 'avent seen 'im recently."

"O'course ye 'aven't. Ya 'avene't been 'ere for nigh on two days, Jimmy, dear." Said Bertha with a laugh. "'e's at the back of the camp on the ravine. Y'know that. Now come 'ere and talk with Bertha."

Keturah grudgingly sat on the bed, poised and stiff and still intently focused on the window, still bright red. "What d'you think o' the men in th'camp?" Keturah inquired.

Bertha sighed. 'Strange question. Which men?"

Keturah shrugged. "Charles? Mackenzie?"

"Charles is a hardened killer," Bertha answered unabashed. "'e's a skilled blade. Think 'e told me 'e joined the army so that 'e could kill legally. That's what went and got 'im thrown out."

Keturah nodded slowly. "And Mackenzie?"

"Similar to Charles. Joined the army 'cause the only thin' 'e was good at was killin'. When those new troops of Logan's came in, 'e deserted. Refused to kill women or children, or some such nonsense. Nearly got 'imself killed by order of the King."

_My brother_. Keturah seethed, recalling vividly the sharp words, the cruel test. He belonged here, with men like Charles. Men like Mackenzie, who knew their grim talents but maintained humanity, did not deserve such a punishment as death. Their presence was needed in Albion. Dim though their light was, it was still present and persistent in the darkness.

Keturah felt Bertha's warm touch brush against her collar bone, but reacted too late. She shied and shrank away, but not before Bertha had felt the bindings round her chest, constricting the soft breasts of a woman rather than the hard muscle of a man.

"My word," gasped Bertha. "Y-you…What."

"Shh," Keturah hissed, brushing a pointer finger to her lip to indicate the need for silence. "Please."

The matronly aspect that Keturah had sensed in Bertha's demeanor emerged. Angrily, the prostitute gathered her robes around her, her brows knitting and her voice becoming harsh and loud. "What 'ave you done with Jimmy!"

"Be quiet, _please_," Keturah squeaked, backing away from the advancing gypsy. "I don't want to hurt anybody."

"You'll be 'urt if y'dun tell me where Jimmy is!" Bertha was shouting now. She whirled toward the door and screamed, "Paul!"

The guard slammed open the door, efficiently tearing the small bolt from the wood, and beheld Bertha advancing on a retreating Keturah. He peered at the two, perplexed. "Did 'e 'urt you?"

Keturah had been distracted by Paul's entrance and did not pay mind to Bertha. The woman lashed out, clawing the side of Keturah's face and efficiently ripping the false beard out of place. The tri-corner hat that had been part of Jimmy's ensemble toppled off, as well.

"That's no '_he_'! Tha' there's a _woman_," snarled Bertha. "It's not Jimmy! Look at 'er eyes! Brown! _Brown! _Jimmy's eyes were a periwinkle color!"

Paul snarled and whirled on Keturah, drawing his blade and preparing to run her through. Keturah was quick, however, and hastily drew her rifle from the sling on her back, pressed the butt into her shoulder, aimed down sight, and pulled the trigger. The thunder of the black powder explosion sounded and the gun kicked against her chest. Paul's blood sprayed the walls around him as he crumpled to his knees and fell face-down on the floor of Bertha's cabin. An exit wound at the back of his skull showed where the bullet had exited after passing through the man's right eye.

Bertha shrieked and wailed. "Paul!" she cried, dropping to the floor to crawl over to the mercenary.

"He's dead," muttered Keturah grimly. "Don't bother."

"You _witch_," seethed Bertha. "You Pickadilly whore!"

"That's the pot calling the kettle black, isn't it?" muttered Keturah, ducking down away from the window and hurriedly reloading ammunition into her rifle. "I did warn you to be quiet."

An alarm rang out, a mixture of bells and the toots of horns. Bertha's cries had sparked the watch and the cascade of protocol (if there was protocol) for an emergency situation. The entire camp was on alert now. Keturh sighed grimly. There would be blood on her hands - blood other than Saker's. Most of the men were cutthroats and mercenaries... but to Bertha, they were family. Most had no principles, but some did. She only prayed to Avo that these half-decent folk had the sense to keep away from her that night.

"They'll kill you," sobbed Bertha. The tears belied the anger that boiled in her words.

Keturah glanced sidelong at her apologetically. "I asked you to be quiet," she stated again before gripping the rifle barrel and swinging the heavy wooden butt of the gun into the gypsy's skull to incapacitate her.

The dark-haired woman collapsed and Keturah crawled on her elbows and knees to reach the oil lamp and turn the key to eliminate the light. Blackness swallowed the cabin and the stars through the window were clear through the sparse treetops. Slowly, silently, her eyes adjusted to the light. She strained to hear sounds around her, her skin prickling in anticipation. They were around her. She knew it. But she did not know where.

She lifted her rifle to the window sill and poked her head around the side cautiously. A crack of a gunshot and a muzzle flash came from her right. She hurriedly ducked back inside, wincing as the bullet struck the wood in the wall behind her. Sucking in a deep breath, she went back to her place at the window, aimed the rifle where she'd seen the muzzle-flash in the darkness, and fired twice before ducking back in. More gunshots were fired, the bullets tearing at the thick wooden walls of the cabin. Stupid, the lot of them. They were all firing at the same time. They all had similar weapons.

The firing eventually ceased – the men had to reload - and Keturah once again appeared in the window, loosing sporadic shots where she could see the figures of men in the moonlight. One, two, three… six bodies. There were only two more shooters. A muzzle flash sparked from her left and Keturah felt the hot air pass by her cheek. She sighted down quickly and fired. Her shot missed the mercenary, but it struck an explosive barrel of some sort. The man let out a howling shriek, the explosion being enough to kill the first shooter and sufficiently debilitate the other.

Keturah took the time to reload her rifle, grimacing. She had enough ammunition left for twenty shots. That was twenty men, assuming she killed each with a single shot. There had been at least thirty in the camp and there were probably more, higher-ranking members of the little criminal society closer to Saker. They were probably better shots, too. She didn't dare use her sword. She was no good with it. Magic… she wouldn't need to maintain tight control in a place like this, at the very least.

Keturah made her way stealthily from the house and out over the barred gate. She climbed a hill, fortified with a sentry post, and hurriedly climbed the tall wooden structure. A man had been stationed atop of it to keep watch. Seeing her march up the ramps toward him, he silently put his hands in the air to communicate that he was unarmed and tossed her his pistol and sword. She looked at him cautiously and reached down and hurriedly picked up the pistol. The man didn't move. He swallowed, the hard lump of tissue in his throat bobbing. It was the bravest thing she'd ever seen a mercenary do.

Keturah nodded to him, to acknowledge his request to be spared, turned the gun, and gave him a sound thump on the back of the head. He crumpled to the ground and she took up a scouting position.

The alarm continued to be raised, the sounds of bells echoing down toward the Mistpeak gate. She could see groups of mercenaries venturing up the hill. The delay gave her time to scope out more of the exploding barrels. Her rifle shot farther than her fireballs could and the mercenaries weren't the brightest of folk. The initial group of ten men did not got much past the newly-opened cabin-gate when the barrel near them erupted, killing most and maiming the rest. A second group was dispatched, and a third. She allowed the groups to travel, respectively, to the barrels in the path. Fire one… fire two…. The barrels ignited, erupting with fire, gore and slaughter. A fourth group came and got as far as the base of the hill before she fired at the barrel. The mercenaries had gotten smarter, however, and had spotted the barrel just as she had fired. One of the men shouted, "Stop!" and it was headed by most of the group. Those who did not hear or did not obey were obliterated by the explosion. The remaining five men continued their advance up the hill.

She was out of exploding barrels and pulled the muzzle of her gun out of the slotted turret and slid to the first level of the ramp. She fired another two shots, picking off one man before the group reached the ramp. She quickly drew out the pistol the other mercenary had given her and took aim at the men who charged at her with swords. The pathetic little hand-held weapon held four shots and she missed with two. Two large, muscled men charged up the ramp toward her and she tossed the small pistol at them, managing to clock one in the head. He groaned and cursed, but they continued their advance.

Taking a deep breath, Keturah focused her fear, anxiety, and desperation into the gauntlet on her right hand and willed pressure and tension into it. A smoldering blue flame appeared there, scorching the glove of straw from her hand. The spectacle caused the mercenaries to halt in their advance and stare at her stupidly. She concentrated hard, every muscle in her body tense to try and control the flame. Sweat beaded on her brow and she focused on the crackling entity in her hand.

"It's jus' a trick! Kill 'er!" barked one.

The other responded with a grunt and they both continued upward, brandishing their blades high above their heads.

Keturah traced an invisible path with her gaze towards the men's chests before clenching her fists and willing the flames along the sighted trajectory. The blue tendrils of energy balled and split into two separate, angry orbs, encasing her fury. They launched, quickly, unrestrained any longer by her mind, and collided with the men's chests. Both sprawled backward, skidding and tumbling down the ramp. They did not get up.

Her knees shook violently and she had to sit down with the rifle across her knees. She breathed in deep breaths, allowing the quakes of fear and adrenaline to course through her. In the palace, she had never imagined that she would be performing feats such as these. A single woman had just assaulted a mercenary camp and slaughtered thirty or more men single-handedly. It was the ridiculous stuff of legends, the impossible truth that came with the legends of the old Heroes. She hadn't believed Walter when he'd told her. She'd believed her ability to create fire simply a matter of the gauntlet rather than any skill she possessed. But Walter continued to tout about her father, and the Hero's blood that flowed through her veins. She remembered, in those tunnels, muttering, "How am I supposed to overthrow Logan….? Even if I am a Hero, I'm just one person."

It seemed as though one person could do plenty of damage, as evidenced by the mercenary camp.

Keturah sighed and picked herself up, able to move without her knees giving way. She descended the sentry tower and began her journey toward the ravine Bertha had spoken of, attempting to move silently and keep her eye out for any other mercenaries.

The path was deserted and that simple fact unnerved her. She hadn't killed everyone. It was impossible. This camp was practically an estate in and of itself. Saker was a military man and knew how to organize his surroundings. There were gates and locks she had to pass through, all of which were mysteriously open and deserted, as though the mercenaries that had surely guarded the place had suddenly disappeared.

She caught a glowing from the corner of her eye, so faint she thought it the shine from an animal's gaze in the moonlight. She turned to look and saw Will, a bugle in his hand and a pistol in the other. He stood stalk still, staring at her, unmoving and unblinking. Then, more quickly than she could see, he raised the pistol and fired two shots. One missed entirely, and she heard the ricochets somewhere on the rocks behind her. The other clipped across her cheekbone, sending a searing pain through her face and down her neck, earning Will a snarl. She quickly drew up the riffle, but by the time she'd aimed, Will had disappeared from where he'd stood. She looked around for him, peering for where he could be hiding, searching for the eerie glow from his eyes.

To her left, she heard the trumpeting of the warning bugle. Grunting, she marched forward toward the open gate.

Keturah found herself in a black circle, strangely like an arena. The ground was uneven, as the high walls had been built on the hill ascending toward the ravine. Thick trees were overhung around it and eclipsed the moon, thoroughly limiting her field of vision. She peered around, searching for where Will could have gone. Surely he hadn't climbed the walls, at least not that quickly.

Harsh laughter broke out around her and she heard the heavy groan of the gates being slammed shut and the sickening sound of the bolt being put into place. _Stupid, stupid, stupid!_

"There she is!" bellowed one of the mercenaries from somewhere above her. She heard the strike of a flint box and a torch, mounted on an iron bracket on the high walls of the arena. Other flints were struck and more torches blazed to life around her. Snarling, mean faces of the mercenaries sneered mockingly down on her from the platform built into the retaining wall.

"Not so smart are we, now?" one man cackled.

"Look at 'er! A sheep in wolf's clothin'!" another roared with laughter.

Keturah spun around, desperately searching for a means of escape. She was a bloody fish in barrel like this.

"I'll bet she's sweet, too," said another. "Probably still a cherry."

"Tha's the way t'do it! Teach 'er a lesson 'bout messin' with men!"

A few of the mercenaries started to advance. A deep, commanding voice halted them, however. "Leave her! She's mine!"

Keturah whirled toward the voice and saw, on an overarching platform above the other men, a tall, thickly muscled man. Bare arms struck out of a ruined, torn, and tattered military jacket, which he'd turned into a vest and marked with the red bird of the deserters. The hard muscles of his chest and the stones of his belly were cast into sharp shadows with the flickering fire. A thick leather belt with a cast-metal skull buckle rested on his hips and the breeches and boots that covered his fine and fit legs were surprisingly clean for a mercenary. His hair was shaved down the sides, leaving a warrior's stripe down the center. He chewed a thick cigar on the left side of his mouth and raised a hand to remove it as he peered down at her.

"You've left quite a trail of bodies, young lady," he said, breathing out the cigar smoke. "What is it you want?"

"Leave the Dwellers be!" Keturah called up to him, surprised at how brave and sure her voice sounded. "They've enough trouble as it is!"

Saker chuckled, tapping the cigar and raining ash down into the pit. "'Leave the Dwellers be.'" He quoted. "The Dwellers are proud people and easy prey because of it. They're the masters of their own destiny just as my men are of theirs. They don't pay my 'protection' fee…" he shrugged noncommittally, "Well, I can't guarantee that bad things won't happen."

Raucous laughter rose up from the circle of men. Saker grinned down at her mischievously. She saw cleverness in his eyes. No doubt he'd been a terrific military leader when he'd had the stones to commit to the good of Albion. Now he cowered from the King, making the problem worse rather than doing anything to alleviate it.

"Besides, what is the Dweller's fate to you?" Saker continued, flicking the old cigar butt into the arena. It bounced harmlessly at Keturah's feet. "I know you're not some bloody idealist. You've killed too many of my men to be one o' them."

"What does it matter what the Dweller's fate is to me?" She retorted. "I have my reasons for demanding that you stop your extortion just as you have your reasons for abandoning the defense of Albion and scurrying off with your tail between your legs to lead a rag-tag band of idiotic pea-brains."

"My my, what a mouth," Saker laughed. He stood from where he'd been crouching his face going from mockingly cheerful to dangerously serious. "Well, you're not one of Sabine's Dwellers, that's for bloody sure. But you'll die like one."

The mercenaries raised a cheer, pumping their fists in the air and whooping for their leader. Saker leapt from the platform and landed with a great thud in the arena. He was unarmed, but his balled fist and the bent stance of his knees told her that he planned to box her into submission.

Saker charged at her with a mighty yell; Keturah managed to dodge and roll out of the way. She was not quick enough to stand without being scathed, however. She was on the ground, readying to push herself to her knees when Saker slammed a boot down against her back, efficiently knocking the breath from her lungs. Keturah coughed and sputtered, flailing weakly as Saker's huge fist balled the front of her clothing and hauled her onto her feet. She could only manage to close her eyes and half-turn her head as Saker raised his fist and slapped it into her face.

The explosion of pain was enough to get Keturah her breath back and she shouted, frantically kicking and clawing. Saker's arm was long enough that she could not reach him with her furthest kick and struggled—pathetic as a puppy held by the scruff—in his grip. She couldn't grab her sword or her rifle. The latter had been knocked from her grasp when he'd stomped on her and the sword was unreachable.

Saker laughed and held her up for all the men to see her writhing against his hold, exhibiting her like a trophy. Laughter and spit rained down on her and she grunted. Instead of clawing and trying to punch Saker, her hands went to her front and began tugging at the clasps of the mercenary jacket.

Keturah slipped from his grasp and hastily scurried away, leaving Saker gripping Jimmy's jacket. She was too frightened to be embarrassed of her appearance. All that kept her decent was the bindings around her chest. Her midriff, shoulders, and arms were bare and glistened with sweat in the torchlight. She hurriedly snatched up her rifle and positioned herself to fire at Saker.

The mercenary guffawed loudly and drew a glass bottle from his side. "Let's give you a taste of yer own medicine, girlie." He said. Using the cigar butt, he lit the stopper on the bottle and tossed it at her.

Keturah knew enough to run. Shards of fire and glass followed her as she bolted from her place. Saker lit more and more of the bombs and tossed them her way, making her flee in circles round and round the arena, setting small patches of the moss-covered dirt aflame. A sudden thought crossed her mind and she skidded to a halt, and hastily changed directions, watching as Saker lobbed another of the fiery bottles toward the trajectory she'd been on. She gathered a fistful of the fiery dirty and willed it keep alive long enough for her to do what she needed to.

She pelted the dirt at Saker, the particles spreading in the wind and creating a fiery buckshot as it flew toward him. Some of the smoldering dirt hit him in the face and he grunted and spat, clawing at his eyes to stop the burning. Keturah hastily withdrew her rifle and pressed it into her shoulder, aiming for the mercenary's skull. She fired, but the shot deviated marginally to the left and struck him through the shoulder–a minor injury, if a painful one.

Saker snarled and launched himself at her anew. Keturah did not run this time. Instead, she balled her fists at her side and blue flames surrounded them once more. Heated hatred and anger seemed to course from the center of her chest into her hands. She threw punches at Saker, striking where she could. She was not nearly as powerful as the big man, but she was quicker and more agile. She ducked through his legs, sprinted and dodged behind and around him, striking him as hard as she could with her fire-augmented fists. Harsh, blackened burns appeared on Saker's skin and he howled in torment at each blow she landed.

Saker fell to his knees and Keturah wasted no time in drawing her rifle and pressing the muzzle into his face. At point-blank range, she could not miss. She had one shot remaining, and it would not be wasted.

"Stop!" Saker gasped, seeing her finger twitch on the trigger. "The battle is yours." He swallowed hard, staring at his clasped hands in shame. "Kill me, or let me live. It's your choice and my men will honor it. We may be nothing but mercenaries, but we have our codes, like any other soldiers. We'll leave the Dwellers be, no matter what you do. That is a warrior's promise."

Keturah clenched her teeth in a grimace. Again, the choice was presented to her. Life or death. She killed Elliot to save the protestors because she had to... did she truly have to kill this man to save the Dwellers? He made a promise... and she truly did not believe him to be as despicable as some of his men. Sparing him would certainly ensure that she kept her life walking out of the camp.

With a sigh, she withdrew the rifle and returned it to the sling on her back. Saker did not look up still, so she took his jaw, sternly but gently, into her hand and forced his eyes onto hers. "You'll keep your promise if you and your men value your petty lives. I _will_ return to kill you if you don't. That is a _Hero's_ promise."

His eyes widened and he gulped. "Yes, Princess," he breathed.

Keturah grinned victoriously.

The expression dissolved as a dark figure leapt from an overhanging branch and landed deftly and silently behind Saker. The person was tall, clad entirely in murky, flowing garments. A cowl was covering the individual's face from the neck to the bridge of the nose and the eyes were thrown into shadow by a drawn up hood. Structured leather gauntlets and leather bracers around the wrists, calves and ankles pinned the flowing clothing to the figure's body and a leather jerkin was clasped and bubbled around the chest. The individual's hands and feet were bare and unbound in the torchlight.

Many things happened at once: Keturah knew that Saker could not see the cloaked assassin and had little chance of defending himself, prone as he was before her; the assassin drew a thin, needle-like short sword from some hidden compartment of the bracer on its calf and strode forward silently; boos and curses were thrown from the observing mercenaries as Keturah bolted, shoving Saker roughly to the side and pulling up her rifle.

She pressed the trigger, the gun bucked against her and the gunshot was muted by the cries and bellows from Saker's men. The assassin, as Keturah had pressed the trigger, side-stepped lazily to the left, just out of reach of her bullet, before striding forward languidly. Saker, aware of what was happening from the booing of his men, spun and saw the cloaked assassin approaching, the knife looking like a thread of molten steel in the firelight. He raised his fists to fight as Keturah raised hers to defend him. She charged forward first, bellowing in rage.

A large, calloused hand caught her round the neck and a hard skull cracked against hers before she was shoved, stumbling, away. She landed with a grunt on her bum and watched, helplessly, as the figure easily brushed Saker's fist away with its right hand and thrust the blade of the needle-knife through Saker's open, bellowing mouth and up through his skull, the tendril of light emerging through the mercenary leader's head and flickering mockingly at her and Saker's men. Blood painted the assassin's bare left hand as Saker gurgled and collapsed. The figure withdrew its blade, wiping the gore on Saker's ragged clothing and hastily bolting.

"I'll kill ya, ya damn coward!" shrieked a mercenary, vaulting down from the platform and charging toward the hooded figure.

The assassin did not so much as flinch and simply continued in the head-long scamper toward the oncoming mercenary. The thin knife flicked out, making a quickly, deadly line across the mercenary's throat before the assassin hurdled over, and, using the dead man's shoulders as leverage to propel itself, bounced once on the platform atop the wooden wall, and escaped from the arena. Gun shots echoed after the stranger as Keturah pulled herself, groaning, to her feet.

The mercenaries had forgotten about her as they scrambled from the arena platform and out to search for the assassin. They did not care about the meddling girl. She had defeated their leader, but she had not killed him unceremoniously. Clenching her teeth, she slogged toward Saker and searched his person for something she could use to prove to Sabine that the mercenaries were no longer a threat: without a leader, they would implode upon themselves. In the end, she simply took his tattered, torn, singed jacket which bore the sign of the deserters. Still stunned and quivering, she folded the garment neatly, offering a prayer to Avo. She did not know for what she asked, perhaps for guidance, but she took the time to brush her fingertips over Saker's eyelids and shut them so that he might rest in death.

The second task had been completed.


	5. Soldiers

**Chapter Three**

_Soldiers_

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><p>The Dwellers were fed and the people of Brightwall had been only too happy to help in the effort. Keturah paid her visit to Sabine and ensured a segment of the 'army' which was to take on Logan. And now here she was, once more, in Brightwall promising to rebuild the library her father had toiled to establish. "The Hero of Brightwall" they called her. Her story would be told and recorded into the annals of Heroes: the daughter of the Hero King had handily slain Saker and driven the band of mercenaries so deep underground they were, for all intents and purposes, extinct.<p>

Having a bit of a respite, she made sure to take some personal time. A hardy, home-cooked meal and hot bath were provided by the inn, complementary for the Hero of Brightwall after her victory. It was simply astounding how rapidly news traveled in a town as small as this. For a full week, she could hardly walk out to the privy without being patted on the shoulder and fussed over. But the attention faded and she couldn't say she wasn't glad for it. During her reprieve, she had finally worked up the courage to approach the barber to see if anything could be done with the atrocity her hair had become. The man – who had the strangest pink hair she'd ever seen – promptly and expertly clipped the ends and made them neat and tidy for her. It was still short but at least the cropped bob looked more clean-cut than the ragged mess Keturah had made of it.

Walter had left Brightwall in order to go and speak with a contact, a woman named Page, who resided in Bowerstone Industrial. Apparently, she was the leader of the resistance group that worked beneath Bowerstone and toiled to overthrow Logan. Keturah had often heard her brother mumbling about it but always thought it to be pure, fantastical nonsense born of paranoia. She never believed it was a true threat until now.

Sufficiently reduced to sitting on her hands until Walter returned with news for their next strategy, Keturah took the time to rummage through the old library and engage herself in research. She did not truly understand what compelled her to do so... perhaps it was the curiosity that was born from discovering that she was a "Hero". She'd taken Walter at his word, something she did with no one else, and had followed him blindly down beneath the palace. He kept referring to her as a Hero, like her father had been. That was all well and good, but she did not understand a thing about Heroes or her legacy. Her father had died of heartbreak (a rather un-Heroic end) after her mother had passed. He'd been so terribly sick in those final days she was scared to talk to him, lest it ebb his strength irreparably. She'd been a child, sitting on Logan's knee by her father's bedside, praying that he would recover his inhuman strength and return to strutting about the palace like the bear he was.

For hours, she browed in the library and pulled all sorts of bound documents from the shelves about Heroic myth and folklore. She uncovered the story of the fall of the Heroes guild after Jack of Blades had ravaged Albion and the Heroes. She found the story, dictated by her father himself, of how he became King of Albion and thumbed through to a random page.

_"Reaver left me with his great mansion. I felt filthy just being in the god-forsaken place. After what he'd done to me, how he'd robbed me of my revenge on Lucien for killing Rose, stolen my youth to maintain his own, and generally been a ball of debauchery, I had no desire to be in his house, where the plotting had unfolded. I thought briefly of turning it into an orphanage, but quickly retreated on that. I hated to think what the sordid sod would do to the children when he came back. 'Look after my mansion', he said. Bah._

_Still, I suppose I owe him something. Without him, I'd not have met _her_. _

_Sophie did not forget my kindness in the cave, when her life was to be expended for the sake of keeping Reaver young and fit. Perhaps she felt that she owed me something in return for my loss. She had taken care of my affairs in town when I hadn't the ability and cared for Hammer when she fell ill. And now sweet, sweet Sophie followed me to Reaver's house and took it upon herself to make the place pleasant for me. I never asked her to do such a thing. I knew how much the place harmed her. Reaver had done far more than simply attempt to steal her beauty. This was no place for her to stay. Neither of us liked it…and Reaver had some rather strange fans that would gladly purchase the mansion. Let the crazy blighters deal with his wrath if he returned._

_I bought the palace... became king and all that. It was a rather unglorious–is that a word?– assumption of the throne. Lucien was gone, the land ravaged from the construction of the spire. I had wished the people back into this chaos. It was my responsibility to steer them cleanly through it..."_

"Princess?"

Keturah glanced up, "Yes, Samuel," she responded to the old librarian poking his head in through the door. "You may come in."

"Right, right." Samuel stepped in, huddled over and squished-looking. He never ceased to remind her of a mouse who'd spent too much time crowded over a book. He approached her and bowed awkwardly before speaking. "Some of the old guard has hazarded a stop in Brightwall before continuing onto their assignment in Mourningwood."

Keturah and Samuel both grimaced at the name. That was what happened to the old guard–they either assimilated or were punished. The town of Brightwall knew that as well as anyone. The people's sons, husbands, and fathers had each been members of the guard. Many of them had died fighting siege after siege of hollow-men.

"The town is hosting a feast in their honor," continued Samuel.

Keturah nodded and closed the book. It held nothing more than fleeting shadows for her. Sophie, her mother, was a phantom in her memory. The great Hero her father had been did not exist in her recollection of the past. All that remained was a tired, aching husk of a man longing for death. Keturah thought him selfish, leaving his children behind in pursuit of a imprudent end. It was not suicide, simply a lack of will. His body slowly stopped working until he was bedridden and unable to eat, like a poison slowly ate away at his body. He only took a glass of wine to try and alleviate the ill humors in his body and dull his senses a bit so that he might heal. People knew the toxin was depression at having lost Sophie and that it would only be a matter of time before the great man passed. Even his children were not enough motivation to keep him in the realm of the living. At his death, the servants and the entire land of Albion had been in mourning. Logan had it the hardest, rising to the throne at sixteen. Walter had been his retainer and the young king had had a promising start. He even extended an effort to travel to Aurora and establish foreign connections there. Logan had spoken of the possible trade routes and advantages of having Aurora as an ally, even an Annex of Albion. But it had all changed. Logan was no longer a bright-eyed, optimistic youth. A darkness had clouded his vision. Keturah had been eight. Nearly thirteen summers had passed since that time.

"I'll go greet them," Keturah stated, brushing off the fine layer of dust that had formed on her arms. She glanced back to Sam and smiled wryly, "'tis my duty as a princess, after all."

Sam actually managed a smile on his timid features. "Very well, madam."

For the first time in what seemed like an era, Keturah felt the small prickling of excitement in the base of her belly. She passed across the central plaza before the great library and meandered past the stalls. The owners waved and grinned broadly as she passed. Not only had she eliminated the threat of Saker (sort of) and run courier favors for a few of them, but she'd also taken it upon herself to purchase the stands, the stores, and the houses in town from the local guard unit Logan had in place. She could not protect the merchants and vendors from the harsh taxes, but she could at least limit the threat of extortion.

Sara was one of the women with whom she'd made fast friends. The owner of the clothing store in town, she was a petite, bird-like young woman with fine features and delicate, long-fingered hands. A honey-colored braid fell down her back and gem-like green eyes peered up at Keturah over freckled cheeks as the princess approached.

"Keturah, love!" Sara called, waving and pausing from where her needle was dipping adroitly beneath taupe-colored cloth of standard working attire. "'ow are you, me ol' pal?"

"I'm well, thank you," she answered politely, eyeing the set of trousers Sara was laboring on. "Fine bit of craftsmanship."

Sara swelled visibly with pride and stood. "Ah, t'ain't much at all! Jus' some workman's trappin's. 'ow's the readin'? Find anythin' on yer father?"

"A bit, yes," Keturah answered, moving around to some of the samples that Sara had available. "I learned how he got the throne. Apparently Reaver killed Lucien and then left Albion–gave father all the credit."

"'magine tha'," Sara breathed. "Reaver, a bloodly 'ero."

They both laughed at that. Reaver was the farthest thing from a Hero (at least in the traditional sense of the word) even in her father's accounts. How Logan had allowed the brute to sink his sick, warped claws into Industrial was beyond her comprehension.

"Need somethin', love?" Sara inquired.

Keturah glanced to the woman. Pink came to her cheeks as she mumbled a response, "A dress..."

Sara blinked in surprise. Keturah had favored the striped stockings and harsh, practical jacket she'd made from Jimmy's revolting clothing scraps. Sara had convinced her to surrender them in favor of the neat laced trousers, knee-high boots, and handsome blouse of the highwayman outfit. Now, this ergonomically-minded princess was asking for a dress.

"For the feast tonight," Keturah clarified.

Sara grinned. "Oh! Fancy impressin' the soldiers, eh?" She winked.

Keturah brushed off Sara's taunting easily. The color remained in her cheeks. "Oh, I fancy more than that," she replied with a devilish grin.

Sara giggled and placed her needle such that she could return to work later and stood from the ground. "Lemme see what I 'ave. We may 'ave a problem, you bein' so long n' thin n' all. May 'ave to take in the waist and lengthen the 'em. 'ow big are yer knockers? 'andful? 'andful and a 'alf?"

Sara had found an older dress for Keturah to wear, a lovely, long-sleeved gown of crème-colored linen. It was the faintest shade darker than Keturah's skin and brought lovely emphasis to the darkness in her hair and eyes. The hem had to be lengthened, as Keturah stood a full head taller than Sara did. Even then, it came to the middle of her shin. After being so long in loose, comfortable blouses and trousers (she'd have been scolded for such scandalous clothing at the palace), the dress seemed rather strange. It clung beneath her breasts and around her hips, defining Keturah's figure in a neat, elegant way. As for shoes, Sara had managed to scrounge up some slippers for the princess to wear.

The seamstress, who was far more interested in dresses and frilly things than her counterpart, wore a short-sleeved dress of the same purple as the summer sunset and simple, but beautiful, heeled shoes that added a bit to her height. She also fixed her long plait into a fashionable ball of curls at the back of her head. Sara had also taken the trouble of applying rouge to her lips and cheeks. Keturah politely declined the make-up. Rouge was synonymous with prostitutes for her after the encounter with Bertha.

"Right, then!" Sara announced, puckering her lips and adjusting her bust in the mirror. "I think we're ready, love!"

Together, Keturah and Sara moved down from the hill near the library, across the bridge and into the town square. Many of the villagers had already arrived and the smell of mead and roasting meat could be scented from the inn. The soldiers stood at ease in formation and other girls in the village were giggling and blushing at the sight of handsome men in uniform.

"Oh, I like 'im," Sara giggled pointing subtly to an attractive young man with dark hair and dark blue eyes. "'specially the muscles. Look! Y'can see 'em beneath 'is coat!"

Keturah laughed merrily with Sara and the pair brazenly approached the soldiers. One of the men Keturah recognized from various recruitment posters, portraits in the palace, and the conference that had banished him and his units to Mourningwood: Major Swift.

The major removed the cigar from his mouth and exhaled a cloud of cherry-scented smoke before peering at the girls over his moustache. "Hello, ladies. It is a real treat to be in the presence of two beauties, such as yourselves. What can I do for you?"

Sara giggled and flushed, half-hiding behind Keturah.

"Major Swift," Keturah said with a smile. "It's been a while since I've seen that famous moustache."

Swift blinked. "Well I'll be damned! If it isn't little Keturah!" The major promptly replaced the cigar in his mouth and extended his gloved hand for Keturah. "It's been too bloody long, girl, too long."

"Indeed it has, Major," Keturah replied, her grin wide as she looked upon the man she'd always admired.

"Men!" Swift bellowed, turning toward the regiment of soldiers behind him. "You stand before her highness the Princess of Albion! You will conduct yourselves accordingly. With that, I dismiss you for leave time. Report here at sunrise tomorrow morning."

The men slowly fell out of formation, each of them looking at Keturah as though she had three heads. She bit her lip and fought back the color that rose to her cheeks and made beacons of her ears. In the short hair and linen dress, she hardly looked like royalty. The men had probably imagined some regal, beautiful, elegant woman to look up to. Instead, they got a tall, gangly girl whose bobbed hair made it perfectly clear that her ears were too large for her head.

Swallowing her timidity, Keturah stepped forward and shook each of the men's hands individually. Names flew by her quickly and she worked to associate them with faces. Laurence, Jamie, Carl, John, Henry, Maurice, Jack, Bernard, Nathan, Ben, Reginald (the one that had piqued Sara's interest), Chris, Matthew, Edward, Mortimer, Andrew, James, Fred, Donald, Errol, and Gregory. She grasped each of their hands, looked into eyes of green, blue, gray, and brown and thanked them ardently for their service on behalf of Albion. She even managed to get a few of them to blush in return.

After introductions, the men dispersed into the crowd. Sara left Keturah to snatch Reginald before any of the other girls could catch his eye, leaving Keturah to stand awkwardly by Major Swift. "I'll see if there's help needed at the inn," she said, excusing herself and retreating toward where many of the soldiers had followed the smell of food.

The men drank and were merry. Lightheartedness and jovial laughter permeated the village square and Keturah was glad for it. Folk were happy, full, and wanting for nothing. Life was simple. A few folk moved from the inn to outside in the evening sunlight. A few even managed to conjure instruments and began playing jigs. Girls, prettied up with dresses and flowers in their hair, were asked to dance by Swift's men. Keturah saw Sara dancing with Reginald and smiled to herself, glad that her friend was enjoying herself thoroughly.

"Princess?"

Keturah looked away from Sara and Reginald. A man with a rough-hewn attractiveness approached her, a broad grin on his handsome features. Blonde hair half-swept into his face and his uniform was roguishly unkempt and tussled-looking. He was truly set apart from the other soldiers and certainly seemed headstrong and cocksure.

"Yes Ben?" She responded, thankful that she had remembered the name.

"It's a fine evening and a lady beautiful as yourself shouldn't be left alone just to watch everyone else dance," he said, gallantly strutting forward and offering her his hand. "May I have this dance? I think that's how these things go."

A sharp thrill coursed through Keturah, pulling her mouth into a wide smile. "Of course," she answered exuberantly, taking his large hand and allowing him to lead her into the fray of other swirling bodies.

The musicians played their repertoire of jigs and Ben was quite a skilled dance partner. It honestly surprised her, as she hadn't expected such lighthearted grace from a soldier so scruffy looking as he. Their hands met and parted and he twirled her in circles, quite out of context in with the song and group dance being done. They both laughed, jolly and thoughtless to the chaos in the world around them. Oh, how she'd missed this! Dancing had been a well-loved hobby, along with lute-playing, when she was at the palace. It was a required art-form for a lady as it was how she was expected to meet suitors at the castle balls and banquets. She was used to having teetering old Hugh as her partner seeing as the old coot was well-versed in the art of dancing. It was something entirely different to have a young, tall, strong man as her partner. And Ben was indeed strong. She had observed the wicked-looking blade on his back and knew that the strength in his arms and torso was born from swinging the heavy steel hard enough to sever men's limbs. Elliot had practiced at swordplay, but was never truly adept. He preferred to research and look into matters of politics rather than dirty his hands with the brutish tactics of soldiers. His body had certainly reflected those penchants. He was an excellent dancer, though; skilled enough not to step on the long gowns she'd worn to those banquets and observant enough to know when the corset constricted her too terribly and she needed a rest.

_Elliot_.

Keturah stumbled in the dance, shattering the brief memory. Ben's firm grip fell on her wrist and around her waist to keep her from crashing to hard into the dirt.

"I know I'm devilishly handsome and all," Ben said with a light-hearted chortle, "but I've never had a girl 'fall' for me so definitively before."

Keturah laughed awkwardly as Ben righted her once more. "I think I'm dizzy," she offered in apology. "I'll sit out for a bit. Thank you for the dance. It was lovely."

Ben wagged his eyebrows. "My pleasure, Princess." With a graceful gesture that belied his rugged appearance, Ben flicked her wrist up to his lips and placed a gossamer kiss at the bridge of her knuckles, grinning at her as he did so. "Until next time."

She was overcome with the urge to strike him. But she smiled instead and curtsied, hurrying away to rest on the wall near the river. It was not his fault. Ben had done nothing wrong. The dance, the elation she felt, they were simply too tantamount to Elliot. The poor boy had died so that the people might live. She had efficiently been his murder and nothing would mitigate that title. She should be miserable with the weight of his memory, yet here she was, enjoying a dance in the arms of another man. True, she had not loved Elliot as a wife loves a husband. Their meeting and planned union was very much for the sake of strategy. Had relations between the families dissolved, they'd have been matched with other folk. But the two got along well and Elliot had been smitten with her. It had been her intention to grow to love him in return.

"Princess?" This time, it was Chris, a rotund soldier who was more flab than he was muscle, who asked for her as a partner. "May I ask you for a dance?" The request was half-whispered.

Keturah forced a smile through her guilt. "Of course, soldier. It would be my pleasure."

It would do no harm to dance with the soldiers. It would certainly boost their morale to dance with royalty. This was her duty. She would enjoy serving the people and relating to the old guard that had once made Albion proud. She would take no pleasure in the dance itself. Not again.

One after another, the soldiers asked to dance with her. Even Major Swift took his turn deftly twirling her among the other dancers. She accepted each with a smile and a pleasant demeanor, moved her feet and met her hands with theirs. The memory of Elliot haunted her. She could see him on each of these solders – foolish, innocent, naïve, idealistic. The only ones who didn't match the description were Major Swift and Ben Finn. They were men, not boys, as Elliot had been. He hadn't the chance to become a man. Some of these soldiers she danced with wouldn't either. They would be like the young lord, slain in the prime of their life, never to know peace or warmth or the soft embrace of a loved one ever again.

She was thankful when the requests to dance ceased and people began meandering away to their homes. The sun had long since set and the flames on the lit torches were beginning to lose the ferocity with which they'd burned before. Left to herself, Keturah returned to the inn to assist the keeper and his wife with clean-up from the meal and festivities. She was given the mundane task of wiping the bar and tables (folk were too frightened to give their princess much manual labor) and began watching the people, a melancholy glaze over her eyes. There was Samuel, finishing the only tankard of mead he'd had the entire feast and politely handing it off to the plump innkeeper. The slightest redness from the alcohol tinged his cheeks as he lazily walked past Major Swift, who clapped him on the back with a laughed, "Take it easy now, Sammy-boy!"

Sara pranced up to her, the seamstress' neat bun toussled and messy-looking (whether from dancing or…_other_…activities, Keturah was unsure). "Evenin', Princess," the woman giggled. Keturah scented the slightest amount of honey mead on her breath.

"Good evening, Seamstress," Keturah returned with a forced smile and a laugh. Sara was happy and she would not let her dour mood ruin it. "What can I do for you."

"Oh, no, no, no, love," Sara giggled. "It's what I c'n do fer you. 'ere. Gimme yer 'and." Without waiting, Sara tugged Keturah's hand off the table and slapped a few rounded disk-like objects into her hand.

"Condoms?" Keturah blurted in alarm. She the realized how loud her outburst had been and hastily dropped to a whisper, "What –"

"Yer welcome," Sara grinned. "Made of sheepskin fer durability an' they're nice n' thin, too. Feels like nothin's there."

"What in Avo's name am I supposed to do with these?" Keturah hissed.

"Well, I though tha'd be fairly obvious," said Sara with a roll of her eyes and a hand on her hip saucily. Then she winked. "Dun' worry. Me and Reggie 'ave our own supply."

Keturah was only left to sputter in frustration while she tried to wrap her tongue around a suitable retort.

Sara wasn't discouraged. "Aw, come on now, poppet! I know 'ow things work up in t'palace. Yer supposed to be all lady-like, eh? Seems like yer bloody repressed t'me." The small woman reached out and curled Keturah's fingers around the disks of sheepskin. "G'on. 'ave a little fun b'fore you 'ave to go back n' be a lady pretendin' she dun' wan' a man." Sara winked. "I've seen Ben Finn over there lookin' at ya since you danced with 'im."

Sara shifted her eyes over her shoulder and Keturah followed the seamstress' gaze. Ben stood just outside the door of the inn and was currently engaged in a chat with Reginald. Seeming to sense her eyes on him, he turned and offered her a wide grin full of white teeth and a wagging of his brows.

Ketura flushed from her chest to the roots of her hair and hastily slammed her fist at her side. The lack of pockets made it impossible to store the demonic little circles for the moment. "Thank you," she muttered to Sara. "Go have fun."

Sara giggled and skipped off toward the inn's door, grabbing Reginald's hand and snatching him away from Ben. The soldier spun crazily and stumbled along behind, laughing the entire time.

Keturah returned to vigorously scrubbing the tables, intent on carving out every minute form of dust and imperfection that existed to vent her utter embarrassment. Table after table shone with the abuse and elbow-grease of a Hero's strength cleaning the surface. When she chanced a glance back toward the door, she was relieved to see that Ben was not there, waiting to ambush her. She was not worried that he would harm her, heavens, no; she simply did not want to contend with anything Sara may have started and be forced into the awkward position of holding a conversation about sex with a _man_. She was thoroughly embarrassed as it was with Sara. She'd die of shame if someone like Ben were to strike up the subject.

Feeling it was safe to exit the inn, Keturah returned her supplies to the innkeeper, who thanked her for her help profusely. Folding her arms against her chest against the chill of the night, Keturah stepped out of the warm building and began her trek through the village square and toward the bridge toward the nucleus of Brightwall.

"Princess!"

She cringed and pretended she hadn't heard, continuing her march toward the library and her sleeping quarters.

"Keturah!"

A light touch at her elbow let her know that she could retreat no farther. Ben had caught up to her as she was ascending the hill toward the fountain magnanimously donated by the late Hero King.

"Bloody hell, you walk fast," he said, the slightest strain in his breathing indicating that he'd expended some effort to catch up with her. "Let me walk you to your…erm…house?"

She offered a weak smile. "No thank you, Ben. You need your sleep. You're to march to Mourningwood on the morrow. I'm quite capable of handling myself against the stray squirrel or rabid chipmunk which may cross my path."

Ben grinned. "You never know, those squirrels are cheeky bastards. They steal my socks…and always the right ones. Causes me to have two left feet, y'know. May be why you stumbled."

Keturah could only offer a watery smile. "You were a wonderful dancer Ben. You needn't worry."

The cheerfulness in the soldier faded and a more serious note colored him. "I thank you for the compliment, Princess, but I am concerned. You seemed upset after our dance. Did I do something wrong?"

She looked up at him purposefully, her lips in a flat line and her eyes stoic. "There was nothing you did that upset me. I am tired is all."

The cheeriness returned upon the discovery that he was not at fault. It was muted, but it had returned. "Still, my lady...If you wish to speak or desire any company, I'm not posted tonight. It would be no trouble."

Keturah wasn't sure whether he spoke out of sincerity or lust but decided to give him the benefit of the doubt and grace him with a smile. "You needn't worry for me, Ben. Get some rest. You've a long journey ahead of you."

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><p><em><span>Disclaimer:<span>_

_I have no idea what sheepskin condoms look like. I know they used them back in the old days, but I have no idea what they would look like initially. I doubt they were rolled up like modern condoms are, but that's sure as hell how the creators of Fable made them appear…so I'm sticking with that. BLAME THEM! False historical information right there! Haha._


	6. Reaver

**Chapter Four**

_Reaver_

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><p>Good lord, his head was pounding.<p>

Reaver pinched the bridge of his nose between his eyes, grumbling and breathing out slowly. Last night's ritual had been…exhausting, to put it politely. He hardly remembered most of it, which was as it should be. The part he did remember, with fondness, was the copious amounts of fine wine that had been consumed and women who'd been writhing with him in bed. Ah, yes. Lovely little birds they were, too. Were there three…? No, there were four…two blondes –twins, no doubt– and a brunette. And then there was the fiery red-head. She'd been his favorite. Yes…much as he liked dominating the entire course of sexual escapades in the evenings, he did have a minor fetish for women attempting to dominate _him_. He could still feel the slight sting where her nails had torn into his skin and it made his groin prickle deliciously.

"Reaver!"

One of the spell-bound Balvarines came in, twitching with the tight control he was under with the enchantment.

"Yes, peon?" he sighed, lifting his head from where he was attempting to massage out the wine-and-women-induced headache.

"There's a riot 'bout to be started outside, sir," the man hissed, his limbs held at sharp, awkward angles and spittle hanging from the corner of his mouth. "A rather big one, too."

Reaver sighed and stood, taking up his walking stick (more for show and womping workers than it was for him to walk) and striding easily past the half-crazed man. The silly creature was a new recruit. He'd soon be accustomed to his new body.

Across the catwalks of the factory he floated, the fine white tailcoat billowing out behind him fluidly. He cut a handsome figure, there was no doubt, but the dread and fear that surrounded him limited the allure he held to people. Of course, that dread, fear, and hatred meant power to him and he consumed it with a voracious appetite. Power, prestige, eternal youth, he had it all. The rituals kept him aesthetically appeased and his mind remained sharp and cunning enough to conjure new ways of making money and maintaining his wealth and stature. Reaver did not hold absolute control of Albion. The King did that. But he had no desire to take the throne. He did not want to bend to the foolish whims of the commoners.

Reaver had been aligned with the late Hero King and had even gone so far as the help the idiotic brute of a man slay Lucien and take control of the spire. And the _idiot_ had gone and wished back everyone who had lost lives to the construction of that great monolith? There had been the promise for great wealth and instead he wished back those who had died? The sniveling, miserable sods were now the bane of Reaver's existence crying for more pay and less harsh conditions. Pah! They were of a lower substance than he and deserved their place in the muck and the filth, toiling away for his gain.

But the Hero King…what was his name? It was something decidedly _stupid_, like a little bird, Reaver recalled. King Robin, King Cardinal, King Hummingbird…ah yes. He remembered now: King Sparrow. Of course, everyone had gone around calling him _Hero_. Jammy bastard. He didn't even have to _work_ and he managed to get the people to pine after him. Sparrow's skill with large swords had earned him muscles that made women swoon and men turn green with jealousy. Reaver did not approve. Sparrow was a brute, a stupid, ignorant farm boy who was romantic and imprudent, not realizing the truth of what he was. Sparrow, like Reaver, was of higher stuff than ordinary folk. But Sparrow had insisted upon dwelling with and catering to his lessers than rising above them.

Oh, and then there was the matter of Sophie. It was a mistake to send the simpleton Hero into the caves. The plan had worked; the muscled ox had sacrificed his own longevity for the girl's prettiness. She'd been a wonderful bed partner. She tried to fight him back and he enjoyed a little tussle before a deflowering. Regardless, it was Reaver's intent to take the Hero's strength and even now, the aura still permeated his blood. But it was dwindling after almost thirty years and Logan, unfortunately, had not inherited his father's blood. Reaver'd not been permitted around the wench-princess and hadn't seen her to know any better.

But Sophie had played well into his little game in such a way that Reaver had not intended, but quickly took advantage of. That pretty little mouse had won over the giant lumbering bear of a man. The two were married, quite romantic, yadda, blah, yadda, tatty-blah and all that. They had kids and Reaver honestly hadn't given a damn about their existence. That was until Sophie passed away and Sparrow fell into a steep bout of depression at her death.

Reaver had heard the rumors that flitted about Bowerstone of the Hero king's decreased state of being and became delightfully curious. It had been all too easy to bribe a servant to steal the novel the king had been writing by night and return it in the morning, exactly as Sparrow had left it. The book documented his rise to power and his experiences. It had pleased Reaver like nothing else to read the king's prattlings and struggles with life. _"Oh, I miss Sophie! Woe is me! I wish I could die!"_ Well, not so much that last part. The king had a terrible time, it was true, and appeared very ill and empty for a long while.

If the king died, Reaver would have the opportunity to appeal to Logan. The child hadn't any idea of what had occurred in the past. Sparrow had made sure to spare his children the harshest details of his rise to power- those pertained almost exclusively to Reaver. But if Reaver could expand influence over Logan, he could gain the power he sought that had been so terribly dulled under the Hero King.

But Sparrow began to recover, damn him. In his diary, he began to look past life without Sophie. He began to see her in his children and knew, then, that he must live long enough to see them grown and safe. They were to be his new anchor to life.

Well, Reaver could hardly have that. He'd torn those last pages from the autobiographical novel and poisoned the ox himself. It had been a simple task, really. Sparrow had always been far too trusting of people. It started with small amounts of an odorless, tasteless liquid dropped into his wine glass at night. At first, it did nothing but slaughter whatever appetite the Hero might have had. But Reaver was patient. It weren't as though he were without young, able-bodied women able to fuel his youthfulness. The dose of poison became greater and greater week by week by week. Sparrow went from having little appetite to being completely bedridden and lethargic. To the outside world, it appeared as though his broken heart had gotten the best of him. Only Reaver knew that the dosage of toxin was enough to kill five Balverines and an extremely drunken Hobbe.

"Reaver is exploiting us!" Came the muffled voice from outside the factory. Reaver groaned. He hated these stupid, stupid people. "We deserve fair pay! We demand better working conditions! We're workers, not slaves."

Reaver opened the doors and looked down at the spectacle before him. A worker stood upon a circular dais and was inciting the other ants that populated his factories and made him rich. It was all very amusing for a small amount of time. But Reaver very quickly became bored.

"Reaver treats us like animals. And we're not going to take it anymore. There's only one thing for it. We have to stand up to Reaver!"

He smirked and pulled his pistol from the holster at his hip, aiming down the barrel and firing a well-aimed shot into the man's leg. The protester collapsed with a strangled scream. The crowd rippled in fright and looked up at Reaver. Well, at least things were a _bit_ more interesting now.

"But lying down is so much easier than standing up," Reaver mused with a smirk on his lips. He shifted his glance from the man, groaning on the platform as blood seeped from the bullet wound at his leg. "My dear friends," he greeted the crowd, opening his arms in a welcoming gesture. "In order to raise morale, I am offering prizes to the most deserving workers." He paused and glanced around the crowd. They all waited expectantly, like dumb beasts waiting for food. Oh, but this would be much better than their half-loaf ration. "The rules that govern what I like to call 'The Reaver Team Spirit Award' are these: firstly, any worker that so much as murmurs another complaint will be shot." Reaver took aim at the struggling man and fired a bullet into his shoulder. He screamed and writhed in agony and Reaver felt the pleasurable tickle in his groin. "Secondly, any worker who takes more than a three-second break will be shot." He loosed another round into the man's abdomen. The protester curled in on himself, wheezing, trying to cough without moving his thorax. The tickle blossomed into an ache. He hoped he hadn't ordered the red-head killed. "Thirdly, any worker who breaks any other rules I have yet to formulate will, yes," he chuckled, "you guessed it, be shot." He aimed once more and sent a bullet through the man's skull, ending his agony. The torment had lost Reaver's fancy and he was intent on returning to his Pleasure Room and enjoying himself. "You may return to work now. As you know, I am a generous man, and likely to start handing out prizes right away! So go on. Shoo! Be off with you! Chop chop."


	7. The Wraith

**Chapter Five**

_The Wraith_

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><p><strong><em>AN: I wanted to say thank-you to those of you who have been reading and those who have visited. I greatly appreciate you reading my work and I hope you enjoy it. Thanks to those of you who've submitted reviews, as well. They are highly valued._**

**Warning:** Herein lies a somewhat graphic (not pornographic) scene between Keturah and Reaver. Dark themes and forced sexual intercourse are present.

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><p>Dara absolutely despised ships.<p>

The rocking, churning motion of the boat was something that he would never become accustomed to. He never understood the stories of men who spent life at sea, voyaging for adventure and becoming completely lost in the essence of the ocean and the simplicity at life on the water. The time was slow for him, the scenery beautiful, but boring. There was only so long he could stare out at vast expanses of waves and water. The churning surface nauseated more than it calmed him. Most of the men on the voyage had overcome the bouts of illness that were associated with a journey across the sea to Aurora, but Dara remained despicably miserable the entire length of the crossing. He never went below deck, as the stench of unwashed bodies, latrines, salt water, fish, sulfur from cannons, and whatever cargo was being carried across was suffocating.

This all occurred after he had been in Albion, with its choking forests and snowy mountains. He thankfully hadn't ventured too close to any of the truly industrialized towns, though it had been a small mercy. Technically Aurora was a satellite of Albion. But the land held no voice in the court and received none of the benefits other cities in the empire did: no guards, no amenities, and no interventions. At the very least there were no taxes. After all, how could King Logan tax the people which he had long forgotten in the shadowy wastes of the desert? It was his preference to leave Aurora be and forget the terrible curse which resided deep beneath the sands.

It was an indescribably immense relief when he saw the shifting dunes and bright sun of Aurora. He was very much a creature of the desert, preferring the warm, solid grit to the choking, suffocating, nauseating cold roll of the ocean.

The boat approached the harbor at a crawl and Dara's stomach churned uncomfortably with impatience…or sickness, he was not sure which. He longed for the sand, the heat, the bright sunlight. The wet and the cold of Albion and the ocean had plagued him for too long. But the ship's captain was cautious and calm, steering the boat with great trepidation toward the harbor, clipping Dara's temper short. He did not wait for the boat to become securely moored in the harbor. His belly was sour and he hadn't eaten well for the better part of four days; precious little of what he consumed extended the kindness of nourishing him for long.

The moment the shore was within jumping distance, he deftly leapt from the wall of the ship's deck and landed neatly, the warm sands welcoming their child back home. On his knees, he gathered handfuls of the coarse soil and let it trickle through his fingers, relishing in the feel of it. The warmth felt delicious on the bare skin of his hands and feet and the fine hair on his arms and the back of his neck rose as chills of pleasure coursed through his limbs.

"You truly are a strange one, brother," Kalin stated, approaching him from where she had been lingering on the dock, patiently awaiting the return of her kin.

"The ocean doesn't agree with me," Dara offered, his voice slightly muffled by the cowl covering the bridge of his nose. He rose to his full height, half again as tall as Kalin. "The sand is a welcome ally."

Kalin chuckled and turned back toward the city of Aurora. "You speak as though you were at war with the ocean, Dara."

"It certainly felt that way. The writhing demon kept stealing the lunch from my very bowels," he stated, dramatizing the seasickness.

The long day was not yet to a close and the presence of darkness did not need to cloud their consciousness at the moment. Like any Auroran, they reveled in the sunlight. Dara followed behind her, foot steps silent as ever.

"I assume everything is taken care of?"

He scoffed. "Hardly. Saker has been disposed of, that much I can say for certain. Reaver is still a problem."

She looked up at him, her painted face squinting as she had to endure the bright sun to glimpse his expression. "Saker is slain? Your Hero did it?" She hadn't the vaguest idea of who Reaver was.

He shook his head heavily. "No. I did. How he met his end is inconsequential."

Kalin sighed in irritation, turning her gaze away and rubbing her eyes. He knew she was upset that she was unable to read his expression with the cowl and the hood. It was where her gift came from to be a leader – even those who could school their expressions were not impervious to her intuition.

"I do wish you wouldn't wear that thing." She stated. "It's not as though you need it around these parts." It was a scolding, but a gentle one. Everything she did was gentle. She was kind and strong, just as her father had been.

Dara shrugged in answer. "Matter of preference. I feel naked without it."

His sister did not press the matter further as they climbed the stairs to the temple where prayers were offered to the Light. Dara's gaze swept over the priests and the clerics who were at work in an attempt to impede the Darkness from engulfing too many of Aurora's precious lives. A few who were standing reached out and clasped his forearm, a gesture of greeting and hope for strength. Dara gripped their forearms firmly in return, nodding with assurance. Upon his release, he continued following Kalin, his footsteps silent behind the swishing of her gown and robes and the soft slap of the thongs against her feet. When the door had shut behind them and secured the peaceful, private quiet of the temple, then -and only then- did Dara slip his hands up to remove the large hood and cowl from his face.

Kalin laughed at the sight of him, though she quickly flattened her expression. "Long journey, I see."

"Harrowing," he replied in return with a smile. She was laughing at the thick beard that looked much like a poached animal had been plastered to his face. He'd been almost two months without the means with which to shave. The growth at least did well to hide much of his face. He almost didn't need the cowl.

Kalin and Dara went to the private chambers which housed the leader of the Auroran people, previously Kalin's father before he'd been taken by the Darkness. His sister seated herself neatly on one of the large cushions that populated the area, utilized both for sleeping and sitting for discussions. Dara slipped Tantalize from its sheath at his calf and laid it neatly on the pedestal where he'd retrieved it before his journey. The blade was thin, almost frighteningly so, and the length of his forearm. However, the delicate width belied the strength it possessed. It was forged deep within the mountains that surrounded Aurora with a magic that had been long forgotten by the people of Albion. Thin though the steel was, it was durable and strong. He'd polished and cleaned it many times on the voyage and still marveled at the intricate craftsmanship that went into hammering and folding the steel over and over on itself to create such strength.

With his back to his sister, he removed the leather gauntlets and the tight-fitting leather jerkin and placed them ceremoniously near the sword. Unabashed, he stripped out of the dark, billowing garments of the Wraiths and used a basin of water to clean the journey's filth from his body. Kalin watched silently, assessing him. Without a looking glass, he hadn't any idea what she might find to be questionable about his appearance, save the Balvarine carcass on his face.

"You were wounded," she sated first, having noticed the blemish on the skin where his neck met his shoulder.

He chuckled noncommittally. "I have the Hero to thank for that. Even frightened out of her mind, she managed to aim better than an army of the mercenaries." He continued to scrub, watching the basin slowly change from clear to murky. Even with the filth marring the clarity of the water, he made sure to keep the surface moving, lest the Veil tempt him.

"She shot you?" Kalin demanded, her calm voice belying her concern. "In Avo's name, what did you do to provoke such behavior?" She paused for a moment before murmuring, "And the Hero is a woman?"

"An eye for an eye, I suppose," Darah responded with a grin. A part of him very much liked that the Hero's reflexes were quick enough to take a chip out of him. He was rarely struck by ordinary folk. Then again, he supposed she was far from ordinary.

"Oh, and never try to headbutt a Hero," he said, grimacing at the recalled pain. Even with a skull as thick as his, he'd had an ache for days. "It doesn't turn out well," he continued. "I'm lucky I escaped the camp. I was noisy enough with my stumbling."

"You said 'she'," Kalin pressed. "The Hero is a woman?"

"Yes," he replied finding a pair of loose trousers worn by most men in aurora and securing the tie around his hips. The billowing garment was tight around his ankles, creating a sort of ballooning-effect around his legs. The garment was designed to harness the desert's winds and use them to cool one's body. The heat, however, never perturbed him.

He saw Kalin's dumbstruck expression. "Don't act so surprised, sister." He said, his lips pressing down a grin. "Women are capable of terrific feats as well. You yourself stand as an example."

Kalin flushed a bit at that–silly woman, never one to accept or acknowledge compliments. Still, he knew it tickled her pride and felt no shame in it.

"Where does she come from?" Kalin inquired.

Dara scratched at his beard lightly. "That is information I cannot tell you with any certainty. She does bear remarkable likeness to Logan."

His sister flinched visibly. "Logan? Then can we trust her?"

He could only offer a mischievous grin in return. Nothing he knew was certain, but he knew how Kalin balked at the mention of Albion's king. She certainly had a surprise in store for her when these events came to a close, of that he had no doubt. He was not quite sure what it entailed, precisely, but it was to be a fantastic display.

"Your horns are becoming apparent, again," Kalin commented as Dara retrieved the shaving kit and seated himself beside her. "I'm surprised nobody noted them."

He chuckled. "One of the reasons I keep the hood," he answered.

"Dara, I'm serious," she hissed, large dark eyes shifting to the window. "Negyne was looking for you again this afternoon. The people are becoming frightened. I need to do what I can to make their lives bearable as we contend with the Darkness. I cannot have them lost charging off into the desert to fight a harmless shadow."

"Yes," he sighed as the beard on his face slowly migrated to the basin of filthy water. "Imagine the terrible inbreeding that would occur should the population dwindle any more."

Kalin thumped him on the back of the head, causing the blade to slip in his hand and make a small, inconsequential nick at his throat.

His voice took on a melodramatic tone. "A hair more to the left and you'd have killed me, woman!" He thumbed off the droplet of blood and continuing his shave.

Kalin grunted, her gaze uncomfortable. He knew the sight of blood unnerved her. The fact was particularly true of the sight if _his _blood. The dark blue color was unnatural and, though she'd known him his entire life, she never quite managed to swallow her disgust at the sight.

"I thought you said the Hero would kill Saker," Kalin prompted. "You said he'd -..._she'd_ come here."

"I said she _might_," he stated tersely, finishing with the razor and standing to snatch a handful of water from his skin and splash it on his face. Ahh…it felt so much better to be rid of the mangy beast that had lived on his face the past few months.

Kalin pressed, "You're supposed to be a Seer, Dara." Anger always looked strange on her face. She was normally so calm, collected, and serene. A part of him almost took pride in the fact that he was able to coax emotion out of her past calm, diplomatic responses.

"I am a Seer, Kalin," he answered tiredly. "But I do not have all the answers."

She let out a slow breath to calm herself before inquiring smoothly. "Then what do you see, if not answers."

"Possibilities," he answered with a grimace. "Nothing is clear. What I did know is that Saker had to be killed. It did not matter whose hand dealt the finishing blow."

Kalin's eyes spoke of years of pent up curiosity. He could almost hear the questions: why did Saker have to die? For what purpose? How was a mercenary of any consequence to the events of now? But she knew better than to voice some of the inquiriess, however. The few times she had, she'd been rebuffed with a harsh chill that was unequivocally strange out in the heated wastes of the desert. S

he stood and stepped away from Dara. "What is needed now?"

"Half the Wraiths remain in Albion for the Hero to contend with," he stated with a smirk. But it faded with the somber topic that followed. "The others remain here as protection from the Crawler and the Darkness."

His sister's eyes softened as he stood and fetched the file they kept hidden behind a chest of drawers at the far end of the room. "Thank you, Dara."

"I do nothing," he stated simply, beginning to rake the harsh metal across the jutting growths near his temple. "I am simply a mediator where there wasn't one before."

He peered up at Kalin through the dark fringe of hair that fell into his eyes as he was bent over. She stood in the doorway of the chamber, watching him with pity in her large eyes. He balked at the sight of it. He did not want her pity or her sorrow. She had enough to trouble her with the onset of the Darkness and the Crawler. She needn't concern herself with his aesthetic obligations.

"I'll fetch you some food. You look like a Hollowman," Katlin said, her calm demeanor unable to mask the regret in her voice.

Dara stopped filing and looked up to his sister. "I'll scry tonight," he told her. "I'll search for an end."

His sister nodded and stepped out. The slightly quickened pace of her breathing, inaudible to anyone else, told him she was on the verge of sobbing.

It did not take long before she returned with their meal. The food was bland and plain, but healthy, filling, and enough. The leaders got no better than the ordinary folk in Aurora, a tradition Kalin maintained after her father had passed. Two bowls of boiled oats with nuts and honey, a smaller one for Kalin and a larger one for Dara, and two rations of bread made of flour imported from Albion.

"Eat," she commanded when he simply stared at the food.

"I will," he assured her with an easy grin. "Sit down. I'm not the only one that needs rest."

Kalin obeyed wearily, eyeing him with an experienced gaze. He'd replaced the file and turned his head a bit so she could inspect his skull from various points of view and ensure that he'd pruned the horns enough that the length of his hair was sufficient to cover them.

"Meet your expectations?" He teased her. "Do I look human?"

She frowned and the increased breathing came. "You _are_ human, Dara."

He stifled the cringe at hearing her close to sobs again. "Kalin, you needn't concern yourself over me."

"My concern extends to you as it does to all my people," she retorted, her voice still calm. He saw the subtle twitches in the corners of her eyes and watched her swallow the lump in her throat.

"You know full well I'm not one of your people," he answered calmly. "You needn't bear my weight on those frail shoulders of yours. Eat, Kalin."

She opened her mouth to form a rebuttal, but closed it and looked listlessly down at the food. She lifted her bread and her small hands began picking it apart and delicately putting small morsels into her mouth. He watched her for a while before finally reaching for his own ration, devouring it much more ravenously than his sister. Though his portion was larger and her bites smaller, they finished at similar times.

"It's alright to cry," he stated, handing her the bowl of boiled oats. "I won't tell the priests," he added with a wink and a cheeky grin.

She scoffed. "What makes you think I'm crying?"

"You're restraining yourself. It's not healthy." He stated plainly, forcing himself to slow down in the eating of his meal. Gulping it down too hastily could turn on him. His stomach was unaccustomed to food being inside of it.

The two ate in silence for a while, Dara finishing his bowl and Kalin offering him what was left of hers. With the meal completed, Dara set the bowls aside and gathered his sister into his arms. He never realized how truly enormous he was until he saw with her like this. She laid her head against his shoulder, sniffling a bit, but not crying.

"How long? How long until the Darkness comes?"

Dara grimaced. "Fourteen cycles of the moon." The Children's presence was growing stronger. He could feel it every time he stepped toward the mountains outside of Aurora.

"Will the Hero come by then?"

Dara nodded. "I will make is so."

Night came and the people of the city of Aurora barricaded themselves in their homes, as had become tradition. A murky darkness overtook the streets that not even the light of the moon or stars could pervade. As Dara stood, clad once more in the regalia (simple though it was) of the Wraiths, he observed as, one by one, the lights in the houses disappeared, the residents turning in for a fitful sleep with their prayers offered to the Light to protect them for one more night.

His eyes were quite well adjusted to the blackness that came with nightfall. Shapes moved in the space between the houses and represented what was left of the city's guard. The rest were in Albion securing a Hero. Dara stood as the night sentinel, the Seer of Aurora and the leader of the Wraiths. His duties were great, but not so great as the weight Kalin was forced to bear. She was not his sister by birth, but he felt a kinship and a closeness with her that he had experienced with no one else. Perhaps it was because she knew what sort of being he truly was; perhaps he felt a sort of duty to her after her father had saved his life. Whatever the case, however much he hated the Veil that separated his gaze from events of the future and the past, he would need to enshroud himself in its embrace in order glean a clear understanding of what was to occur.

He set the bowl of clear, still water on the ground and seated himself as was proper for meditation and scrying. Peering over the rim, he saw his own reflection staring back at him, the moonlight glowing in his eyes, his features cloaked in the shadow of the cowl and the hood. There was the Veil, thin and delicate as a thread, holding visions of events which may occur in the future, or stories that might have been. Seeing was a cruel gift and one he abhorred. But duty demanded it. He wanted nothing more than the Darkness banished and the Crawler gone.

The barrier was lifted aside and an image flowed before Dara, seizing his form of reality and thrusting him into the strange, dream world of the Veil.

_The Hero stood alone, unclothed and shivering, in a large bedroom. The walls were draped in red velvet, the lights casting a dim glow onto a bed of burgundy. The claws of some strange creature had gashed her thigh and a small trickle of red made its way down her leg and to the plush carpet below her feet. The woman's lips were blue with cold, her eyes half-hooded and glazed. The light in them remained, however, and she stared at her surroundings with keen awareness and naked terror._

_Reaver stepped into the room, clad in a pair of fine trousers and a fine blouse. He was bereft of the cane which he normally carried and, instead, held a rather magnificent box._

"_Isn't it lovely, Princess?" The man said, holding out an intricate diamond necklace. He approached her smoothly and ever so delicately placed the jewelry around her neck. The stones glimmered in the lamplight, making her breast sparkle with riches. The man's hand passed from the corner of her jaw and tapered down her neck, stroking her clavicle before slipping across one breast and stopping at her navel. She did not move. She did not so much as flinch. She simply stood staring forward, her eyes shining with unshed tears._

"_Come now, love, to the bed," Reaver instructed, his grin wicked and licentious.._

_The Princess obeyed mechanically, the movements jerky, much like those of the rail car when it started in motion. Languidly, she positioned herself on the bed such that she was flat on her back staring up at the ceiling. The diamonds glittered on her chest._

_Reaver began slowly removing his clothing, sliding leisurely out of his trousers and tugging his tunic off over his head. The Hero lay still, unmoving, as a bare-skinned Reaver scaled the large bed and lay beside her, his arousal pressed against her buttocks._

"_I'm terribly upset that I won't elicit a reaction from you," Reaver mused, walking two of his fingers up her uninjured thigh to stroke her stomach and cup one of her breasts. "But you see, I need this, and it goes far beyond my own deviant ambitions to one day fornicate with royalty." He grinned and idly stroked the skin of her stomach, watching the gooseflesh rise on her arms The diamonds barely moved as she breathed.. "You see," he continued, "Your father sort of did me in with his little bout of bravery, sacrificing himself for your mother and all that. They may have referred to me as 'The Hero of Skill', but I humbly assure you that it was only for my god-like prowess with firearms. I don't have the great lineage you do, my dear." He carefully brushed his fingers over the diamonds and the anatomy present there. "The essence of a Hero made me strong, but it also made it so I can live off of no one else save a Hero. Your brother did not inherit that essence, sadly. Would have made your revolution a bit easier, no? Regardless, you, my dear, did. Would you like to hear how the ritual works?"_

_The Hero did not respond._

"_Hm. Not much of a talker, are you?" Reaver said in a feigned offended tone. "Well, let's just say that you'll be put in front of this…object. You'll be in a lot of pain and you'll probably wish yourself dead, not that it's of any consequence. I'm sure you'll do fine. Besides, at the end, you'll no longer be cursed with your prowess as a Hero. You'll be a husk of a human, in fact. If you are truly unlucky, you'll end up like your father."_

_The princess' eyes flashed at that, but it was the only reaction._

"_Hmm…struck a nerve, have I? Well, I don't know how your father managed to walk away. I suppose I should be glad. He managed to sire one Hero to continue to satiate me after his death. With any luck, you'll be with child after this and I'll have a pool of little snot-nosed brats to consume in the coming years."_

_Reaver knelt over the princess and tilted her head to the side, trailing long, sloppy kisses down her neck and down to her breasts, which he fondled with unnecessary roughness. "A shame you're a Hero," he mused, poising himself at her entrance. "Your mother put up one hell of a fight. If it weren't for your brutish strength, I'd offer you the same liberty." _

_Tear streamed from the corners of the Hero's eyes, soaking the crimson sheets as Reaver violated her body from the inside out. Her facial expression did not change, nor did her body behavior. She simply lay there, stiff and unnatural, as Reaver thrust and groaned atop of her. The agony that poured forth from her eyes told the extent of the torture that was inflicted on her soul and her body. Loathing, humiliation, fury, sorrow, hopelessness all burned in her doe-brown eyes. But the light did not die. Whatever she clung to, it kept her strong._

_Reaver grunted and stiffened, making a few more harsh thrusts before he half-collapsed onto her, panting in pleasant exhaustion. He stayed as such for a while before removing himself. Angrily, he jerked the princess' arm such that she flopped over onto her belly. He used the pillow, wet with her tears, to prop her hindquarters up a bit more._

"_Honestly, my dear, your tears are depressing," Reaver said with a mocking grin and a laugh. He gave a harsh slap to the Hero's rear before roughly gripping her hips and beginning the brutal process anew._

_Wetness. Water. Light._

_The Hero awoke on the sunny, sandy beach of Aurora's coast, raising to her feet with a groan and bending in half to vomit water. She took the time to unplait her braid and smack the sand from her hair before binding it in a rather unkempt bun at the back of her head. Brown eyes roved along the coast, their light unmated by the sun's rays. "Walter!" she cried out, picking up a quickened pace along the rim of the beach The military uniform she wore sloshed as she loped along. Somewhere along in that time, a dog with chocolate fur the same color as the Hero's hair joined in the hunt. Whoever the search was for, it was a desperate one._

_Caves. Darkness. The cackling laugh of the Crawler._

_Light burst, suddenly, from a figure being raped by the darkness. The sliming, sticky ooze of the Crawler contorted and danced a grotesque jig around and through the body of the Hero. _The light in your eyes offends us,_ the voice hissed._ Put it out_, rang the command. Light bled from the Hero's body, torrents rushing out onto the ground and the dark ooze beginning to emerge from her eye sockets. Her flesh writhed where the Darkness had clawed beneath her skin and began wreaking havoc on her very core. She opened her mouth to scream, but only blackness trickled out. The Children danced gaily around her form, happy in satiated at having the Light of a Hero to feed them. The old man that had accompanied her had already been tainted. His corpse lay crumpled to the side, broken, battered, and used. He'd been an appetizer, a tool, nothing more._

Dara yelped and fell back on his haunches, the dark ooze beginning to froth from the scrying dish. He knocked the bowl over and hastily maneuvered and positioned himself to cast a burst of lightning from his fingertip into the writhing pool of inky ooze. The gunk seized and convulsed before dissipating harmlessly. But the Darkness was not dissuaded. _Did you like what you saw, Seer? _It taunted him, its voice inside his very skull. _You were far too interested in Reaver's actions. You are more like him than you know._ Dara grunted, clenching his teeth and exhaling slowly. The fit would be over shortly. _You cannot stop me. The Light will not defeat me with so pathetic a defense as you. The one called Reaver will taint her, just as the old one is tainted. She will not help you. She will not save you. Your mountains will bow to me, your walls will crumble. We are coming, and you cannot stop us._

Screams echoed in the night. The Children had come to pillage and kill. The Crawler's voice faded from his skull. With a grunt, he rose to his feet.

Dara drew Tantalize from the sheath at his leg and bounded adroitly toward the town, his fellow Wraiths already at work slaying whatever putrid forms of the Darkness' spawn braved their wrath. "Just you wait, Crawler," Dara growled, peering up the hill toward the wilderness cave where the Sand Furies worshiped the Darkness. "You and your spawn will meet your end. I will enjoy every moment of your screams."

All night, they fought. Normally, their numbers were close to twenty men. Now, there were nine, including Dara. The Creeper laughed mockingly in his head as the Children clawed their ways into homes and began dragging people into the night. A horde of them were at his left when he arrived in the fray. Still at a full sprint, Dara leapt into the center of the ring of Children, arching his sword and effectively making each of the little devils disappear with a strangled scream of frustration. He pulled the woman to her feet and helped her limp back into the house. She bolted it behind her and he hastily sprang further into the village. Dara held his sword in his left hand, the pistol in his right, a souvenir from Albion called Desert Fury. He had better vision in the darkness and was a steady shot.

He very rarely used magic. It was different than a Hero's Will and was his essence in its most concentrated form. A Hero's Will was the effect of gauntlets, as he'd seen on the Princes, as Reaver called her. The act of it wearied him and strained his body. But Children were particularly voracious this night and knew him to be the leader. The number of rounds in his pistol became dismally few and he hadn't the time to reload. As quick as he was, he could not dodge and evade very well in enclosed spaces. Seeing the glowing eyes and sharp, impish smiles of the Darkness, he inhaled deeply, clinging to the rage, hurt, and humiliation he'd seen in the Hero's eyes and forced that feeling throughout his body and out further. Earthquakes of lightning ripped from Dara, the epicenter, and efficiently slaughtered the little pests that had begun to claw at his feet.

The effort took its toll. His hands were shaking as he reloaded his pistol and his knees nearly gave out as he bolted to aid one of his men. Five of the Children had over run him and were beginning to claw at his chest and face. Dara shot the ones who held him pinned, picking them off with the pistol before launching himself at the others, Tantalize out before him. The blade met the dark ooze and the scum wailed and disappeared.

"Thanks, Dara," grumbled Pedr, forcing himself to his feet and to battle once more. Dara sprang off in the other direction.

Finally, blessedly, the sun rose above the horizon and the Children dissipated with cackles. But the duties of his men were not yet complete. With their weapons still out, they went and knocked on the doors of each of the houses, giving the all clear and asking for a head count. Dara's station was to catalogue those nearest the hill, farthest from the harbor and at the base of the sandy slope leading toward outside of Aurora. Wmfre's family, Talfryn's family, Alasdair's family, and Comyn's family were all accounted for with casualties save bruises and cuts where Wmfre's wife was dragged from the house.

"May I see?" Dara requested gently.

With great trepidation, the woman pulled up her sleeve to reveal a gash the size of a man's hand and blistering burns all around.

Dara sheathed Tantalize at his calf and delicately supported the woman's arm so that the injured muscles beneath could relax a bit. "Use honey for the burns," he instructed. "Clean the wound with wine. It doesn't seem infected but best not take any chances."

Wmre took his wife by the shoulders and had her step away from Dara. Caution was written over his features as he eyed the Wraith leader up and down. Finally, he gave a curt nod and a muttered "thank you" before stepping inside and locking the door.

_They fear you. They hate you. You are tainted and they know it. You will bring their destruction and their demise_.

"Pack it in," he grumbled at the voice, striding toward where the other Wraiths were gathering. The city went back to sleep, content that they were safe in the daylight and could ensure a few more hours of rest.

"Dara, we can't keep this up fer much longer," said Donovan. "Our ranks're few enough as it is. We were jus' lucky that those blighters chose to strike the night you returned."

He grimaced at the meaning behind that. "I know. Believe me, I know."

The men started removing their hoods, revealing stern features and hardened souls that had seen and shouldered burdens much harder than most had suffered.

"And since Crevan's across th'sea, we dun' 'ave our 'ealer, save you," said Liam, a stocky youth from the northernmost parts of Aurora, where the nomadic tribes battled with the horrors of the desert to live. "We're jus' lucky none o'us got 'urt."

"What should we do?" Pressed Pedr.

Dara sighed. "I'm recruiting help and, unfortunately, it requires the investment of some resources. For now, see if volunteers will start a militia, at least until we're able to get the other men back over here."

Donovan eyed Dara up and down with his amber eyes. "And by 'resources' you mean yerself. Dara, yer barely standing as it is."

"I'm fine," he stated curtly, with a sharp glance at the older man. "Regardless, I'll be needing to go to Albion shortly. I leave on the next ship." He turned nauseated at the thought. "For now get some rest. We need to stay vigilant. The Darkness is growing restless."


	8. Mourningwood

**Chapter Six**

_Mourningwood_

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><p><em><strong>AN: Thanks to those of you who have continued reading. I truly appreciate the supoprt. I hope you're enjoying the story! Feel free to make any inquiries; I am more than willing to answer. :). Comments and critiques are always welcome.**_

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><p>At last!<p>

She and Walter slogged toward Mourningwood Fort, where Major Swift's men had been stationed to fend off the Hollowmen horde at the decree of King Logan. It was a blessed sight. Keturah, Walter, Roderick were both covered in mud from the tops of their head to the insides of their boots. The Hobbes had been difficult, to say the least. The mutated-pig-like-children-creatures had attacked them from inside the cavern until they were nearly beside Morningwood Fort. The trio remained mostly unscathed save for the teeth marks on Keturah's hands (one of the little buggers had chomped on her rifle), and certainly looked worse for wear. Exhaustion was a stern master and it was difficult to trudge through the swamp with very little sleep, food, water and muck-drenched clothing weighing one down.

"Cease yer movements!" Came a command from atop the fortress. A young lad with reddish hair had the butt of a rifle pressed against his chest aimed down sight at Keturah and Walter as they approached. "What likes of creatures are you? Be you men, or be you Hollowmen?"

Walter's reply was a bit guff. "Have you gone daft, boy?"

"Sir Walter! Is that you?" Came joyous realization from the young man. Keturah grinned despite her exhaustion, cracking her dried lips and tasting blood.

"The very same," Walter said, his voice more cheerful now that the boy recognized him and seemed more friendly and less willing to fire.

The youth turned and called over to the men stationed at the large wooden gateway. "Oi! Open the gates! Walter's 'ere!"

A brief delay was followed by the sound of the wood groaning under the strain of the twin chains which pulled it up. Walter and Keturah stepped easily inside before the heavy structure slammed shut loudly. Roderick whimpered and Keturah shushed him, calmly patting the muddy fur on his head. "There, there, boy. It's just the gate. No need to worry."

She followed behind Walter into the fort, looking around at the interior. Men were strewn here and there, some on guard duty, some huddling in an attempt to keep warm, and some up on the mezzanine. A few of the faces she recognized, though most were strange. Even under the dirt, sweat, and gore, she knew a few of them. Her heart sank to see them as such. She remembered them smiling and dancing with the girls in the village, recalled how they'd shaken her hand and introduced themselves. She could even recount their names. Many were missing. She hadn't neglected noticing the graves at the far end of the fort. She guessed that if she were to inspect them she'd find many a familiar name.

One the men nearest her, guarding the gate, noticed her first. Under the mud and the ruined highwayman ensemble, she was surprised that he'd recognized her. Bernard was his name. When she'd seen him in town, he'd been clean-shaven and cheery. Now stubble blurred his features and dirt and tiredness aged him by ten years.

"Princess? That you?" Bernard inquired, his eyes sparking a bit of life into them. He started to step toward her and she noticed the obvious limp with which he walked. The man needed a crutch.

"Bernard, don't," she commanded. The man stopped walking, leaning heavily on the support for the balcony overhead. Keturah covered the gap between them and Bernard grinned at her, his chestnut hair almost seeming to glow from within as his hope was renewed.

"Princess! I can't believe it's you! Oh, Avo bless you! Yer like an angel out 'ere in these hellish swamps," Bernard said, his eyes glassing over with tears.

Keturah felt a lump form in her throat. This should not happen. A grown man, a soldier, should not be on the verge of tears. But she swallowed past her sorrow. She was their Princess, their leader. She would put on a brave front for them. She'd seen the hope that bloomed in Bernard at the sight of her. She would not let that fade. She refused to see the light go out in his eyes as it had in so many others. Not when she had the choice to save it and rekindle it.

She reached up to him and laid her hand gently on his shoulder. "Bernard, it's good to see you. Thank you very much for performing your duties here."

He actually puffed his chest out a bit, as though the ruddy uniform and tarnished brass buttons had been newly cleaned and polished. "Nothin' special, m'am."

She smiled at him warmly.

Slowly, other soldiers became aware of her presence. Those who had seen her in Brightwall waved, the dullness in them becoming brighter with hope. Keturah wanted to shrink and run away. She was a coward, she knew. She hated the thought of disappointing these men. Some were fathers, most were sons. What if she failed them and their families? What if she was not good enough? What if she could not do what they expected her to do? Lead a revolution against her brother? The idea had seemed fine and grand when the anger in her had been nigh consuming after Elliot's death. But she'd recovered. The ragged, gaping wound had been sewn shut rather than allowed to fester and become infected. Perhaps she was naïve and stupid. Perhaps she was a misguided fool. However, she did not want to believe her brother was a tyrant. Logan, the boy who had gone to great lengths to assure the safety of his family and friend, surely could not be the tyrant everyone assumed him to be.

She heard a few voices followed by guffaws, and turned toward the sound. A few soldiers, whom she hadn't seen before, hastily hid their sniggers. A few glares were shot at the pair by the soldiers she'd met at Brightwall and she flushed under the muck. No doubt they were chortling about her appearance. She didn't look like a princess. Queen of the Hobbes, perhaps, but certainly not a princess.

"Keturah!" Walter called to her from across the fort.

"Coming!" She replied, maneuvering her way out of the crowd of soldiers that had formed around her, asking for news of the outside world. Roderick stayed in the group, enjoying the attention and fussing a few of the soldiers gave him.

"We came looking for you!" Walter stated as she sidled up near him. "We have a proposition to make."

"You came all this way to 'proposition' us? And I thought you were here to save us from the legions of the damned." A voice wafted from behind her. She knew the raspy timbre and ducked her head into her shoulders.

Walter's voice and eyes sparkled in recognition. "Captain Ben Finn!" The older man walked over and shook the young soldier's hand, clapping him on the shoulder. "It's good to see you. I take it the legends about this place are true, then?"

Swift answered that, extracting the pipe stem from his mouth and ruffling his moustache angrily, "I'll say!" He waved his arm toward the outside of the fort. "You'll never see so many Hollowmen in one place! We've been stationed her for a month, trying to eradicate them. Mainly, it's use getting eradicated." The major replaced his pipe and looked grimly toward the graves, blowing out a puff of smoke. "We lost some good men last night, including Lieutenant Simons here. And the bastards'll be back tonight!"

Walter chuckled. There was no humor in the sound. "Logan just loves to send you on the best assignments, doesn't he?"

Swift returned the mirthless grin. He then cast his experienced gray eyes to Keturah. "Ah, I see you brought the princess."

"The princess?" Ben demanded in awe. "It can't be!"

"I'm afraid it is, Captain." Keturah offered quietly with a shy smirk.

Ben backpedaled smoothly, "Well, dear, all I needed was to see you smile! No muddy lad could have one that shines so brightly as yours." He grinned at her and winked. Keturah gazed on levelly, attempting to school the small flutter of happiness she felt at being complimented by such a handsome man.

"Just treat her like any other pair of hands for now," Walter stated, giving Ben a hard look.

The major nodded and turned to Keturah. She was eager for an assignment. "Firstly, my dear, let's get you out of those damned rags. We've some spare uniforms around, I'm sure of it. Ben can show you to some clean water so that you can rinse off as best you can." Swift turned to Ben, "Captain, you're to maintain the dear woman's integrity while she bathes. Once finished, show her around the fort. If she's to help us, she'll need a bit of a tour."

"Yessir, Swiftie," Ben said with a half-careless salute. "This way, m'lady."

She followed beside him. Ben was the only soldier who seemed somewhat unphased by the disaster around him. The other soldiers were gray-looking and somber. Ben's golden locks and charming demeanor belonged in a court, or Millfields. They seemed as out of place in Mourningwood as a Balverine in a silver mine.

Ben whistled a tune as he retrieved a spare soldier's uniform for her. "Smallest we have, sorry," he said with a grin.

Keturah accepted the garments gratefully. "No, no. Anything you have is wonderful. My thanks."

"Right, I'll show you th'bathin' area, then," Ben said, walking with the same spring in his step that had been present in Brightwall. "Your hair's grown since last I saw you."

Keturah's hand went up instinctively and touched the small braid she'd formed at the nape of her neck. With the Hero powers awakened, her hair, nails, and lashes grew at incredible rates. Any wounds she sustained also healed faster and left minimal scarring. It had only been a month and the style had gone from a short bob to almost touching her shoulder blades.

"Yes it has," she stated. "Makes me somewhat insulted you believe me a man before I spoke."

"Oh, those clothes hardly do your body credit, Princess," Ben said with a wag of his brows.

"And what is that supposed to mean, Captain?" She challenged haughtily, unable to ignore the obvious bait he'd lain.

He shrugged nonchalantly. "Nothing save that it's a pity you chose to hide those delicate curves of yours under mud and men's clothing."

She laughed genuinely. "You certainly are a master of you art, Captain."

He looked down at her, the blue eyes under his fringe of hair puzzled, as though he'd never heard such a comment before. "What art?"

"The art of courting – though, I suppose in this case the proper term would be seduction," she answered, unabashed and honest. "You certainly know how to talk to a girl properly."

"Oh, I know how to do more than just talk," he said with a cheeky grin and a wink. His eyes gave her a once-over before he turned his back to her and continued walking.

Keturah flushed and continued marching. She would leave unmentioned that she knew _nothing_ about that sort of thing. She'd been so embarrassed in Brightwall when Sara had handed her the condoms and so terrified of engaging in a conversation with Ben. Now here he was purposefully flinging dark, alluring suggestions at her. She was not sure which alarmed her more: the innuendos, or the fact that she was not at all offended by them. Things had certainly changed since her days in the palace.

Ben chuckled. "You speak so openly, Princess. It's refreshing."

"Thank you?" she said with a tilted head.

He made no reply as they came to the bathing area. "Here we are, madam. I shan't peak. You have my word."

"Such a gentleman!" She gasped sardonically, clutching a hand to her breast.

"You doubt me?" He feigned insult.

"Not in the least!" Keturah responded with a grin and a wink. "I'll just have you know I'll shoot you dead if your eyes happen to wander from that tree over there." She pointed to a crooked, gnarled ash.

"Oh-ho-ho! I welcome the challenge, Princess," Ben beamed, showing clean, white teeth.

Ben stepped away and stood at attention up the hill from the small, knee-deep spring of clean water. True to his word, he kept his eyes focused on the tree. Keturah undressed from the boots and trousers and blouse before submerging herself in the pool. The water was crisp and cold, sending a violent shiver up her spine and making her flesh pucker. She washed quickly, scrubbing the muck from her person. The spring water did a splendid job and did not seem any filthier than when she'd entered it. She stood and ran her hand along her arm and chest to cuff the water she could from her body. Freezing in the midday air, she hastily donned the military regalia. The belt was so large it went around her waist twice.

"You truly are a gentleman," she said to Ben, walking back up the hill.

Ben turned and gave her a quick once over before exhaling in disappointment. "Damn, I thought for sure you'd return with an invitation."

"I beg your pardon?" Keturah stuttered.

"Nothing, Princess!" He said, winking at her saucily. "Come with me. I'll show you around."

It was essentially the standards of military life: sleeping quarters, weapons rack, food stores, look out and security points and, lastly, the infirmary.

"Here's where we need your help, if you're able to offer any," Ben stated.

There were makeshift cots and pallets strewn in the corner of the mezzanine, each containing a grumbling soldier with wounds from gunshots, swords, and a few with burns not sustained from fire.

"Brought me a helper, have you?" said a man from behind them.

The pair turned, Ben with a jovial smile, Keturah with a look of abject horror on her face. The man was taller than Ben and broader in the shoulders. His hands and feet were bare and his garments billowing and dark, clasped to his body by tight-fitting gauntlets and bracers at his wrists and lower legs and leather armor that clung to his chest. A hood clothed his features in darkness and a cowl covered his face from the bridge of his nose to his neck.

Keturah hastily drew out her rifle and pointed it at the man.

"What the Hell?" The cry came from both Ben and the stranger.

"Princess, what on earth are you doing?" Demanded Ben angrily, jerking the rifle out of her grasp.

"What he said," grumbled the hooded man, his hands in the air to reveal that he was unarmed.

Keturah did not move her eyes from the cloaked figure. She grunted, jerking her rifle away from Ben. "Catch." She ordered the stranger, tossing him her rifle.

The man's right hand snatched up the riffle gracefully.

_He was not the assassin. Another like him was._ She had replayed the scene over and over in her mind. The assassin who'd slaughtered Saker had been left-handed.

"Sorry about that," she said, her gaze and voice still hard. "You looked an awful lot like a man who owes me money."

The hooded stranger chuckled nervously and returned her rifle to her. "I pity the poor fool."

Ben cleared his throat. "Um, Princess, this is Crevan. Crevan, this is Princess Keturah."

She nodded briefly. "Pleasure."

The man bowed low before standing to his full height once more. "Pleasure's all mine, m'lady. Not every day I have a gun drawn on me by a woman lovely as you yourself."

Her lip curled in disgust. Ben laughed. Keturah was not at all amused.

Crevan moved his hands into his hood and cowl and pulled them back to reveal dark skin, almost the color of mahogany, and dark hair. The style was strange to her, shaved down the sides with a stripe of long hair down the middle. Dark, swirling tattoos around his face and down his neck resembled the markings and fur of a fox. Eyes of amber brown peered at her curiously.

"I could always use help with the mortar," Ben suggested with a nod of his head toward the northern portion of the mezzanine. "We could use a body up there if you've no interest or skills with healing."

"I do well enough," Keturah responded, breaking her gaze from Crevan's to look at Ben. She offered him a reassuring smile. "I'll help Crevan tend to the wounded."

"The help's much appreciated, miss," Crevan replied with a quick bow and a kind, appreciative smile. The gesture was genuine and slightly startling for Keturah. An assassin that was a healer, honest, and had manners? Avo certainly had a strange sense of humor.

Keturah rolled up the sleeves of the military uniform, allowing Crevan to step past toward the cots. She noticed how his feet made only the slightest sound on the stone of the mezzanine and the strange grace with which he walked. She followed him as he began withdrawing herbs from odd pockets of his garment that she had not known to exist.

"Right, well, meet me at the wall if you change your mind," Ben said, sending an expression her way that looked much like Roderick's when the hound begged for food. "I'll certainly miss your company."

Keturah chuckled and stood beside Crevan. "What should I be doing?"

He gestured to his side where old, tattered linen resided. "Set a pot of water to boil those wrappings, if you please. Afterward, take these," he lifted her hands delicately and cupped them to accept a handful of herbs, "and grind them into a power with that mortar and pestle there. When you're finished, I'll make the salve. I'll need your help undressing the men's wounds." He looked at her levelly, assessing. "This is hardly a pleasant task, Princess."

"My complexion is not so delicate," she said, smiling despite herself and cracking her lips once more.

Crevan chuckled, withdrawing a small jar from inside his garment. "Here. Put it on your lips. They look painful."

She accepted and did as was told. The stuff smelled like milk, almonds, and honey. "What is it?"

"Special salve. Those near Aurora keep it handy at all times. The desert dries you out quickly," Crevan informed her, removing his gauntlets to scrub his hands and the leather of the bracers before returning them to their pervious place.

"Why do you do that?" she inquired, setting the pot to boil and beginning her destruction of her herbs while she waited.

"Infection can quickly run rampant should the ill humors I have touched move into their wounds," he explained, moving the blanket off of a youth and examining the bandages around his thigh and groin.

Keturah nodded. "Are you from Aurora?"

"I am indeed, Miss."

"What brought you to Mourningwood?" She inquired, handing him the powdered herbs. "Surely there are better tourist destinations."

Crevan chuckled, setting to work making the salve. "Would you believe that I grew weary of viewing the lovely scenery in Bowerstone Old Town?"

Keturah laughed slyly in return. "No, I would not."

"Here, lift his leg for me," Crevan instructed.

Keturah did as ordered, earning a moan of pain from the soldier. The Auroran undid the youth's dressings to reveal a portion of the wound. To Keturah's inexperienced eyes, the wound appeared to be healing well, the muscle that had been sliced beneath the skin mending together nicely. Crevan applied a small amount of the paste to the man's wound, earning a hiss of pain. Keturah was left to hold his leg while Crevan fetched clean bandages and rewrapped the wound.

"You're recovering well, Phillip," Crevan stated, patting the youth's shoulder.

A weak grin came to the young man's pale face. "Good to know. When's the pain end?"

"Oh come, now. Surely it's less agonizing than when this thing started," Crevan said, sounding insulted. He had turned away to wash his hands once more.

"That it is," Phillip replied. He seemed to be aware that Crevan had moved away and that there was still the presences securing his leg. He propped himself up on his elbows with a groan and peered down. "Hello there, lass."

Keturah grinned shyly. "Hello, soldier."

"Crevan, this your daughter?" Phillip inquired.

The healer cringed violently, throwing a hand against his chest and retorting, "I feel so old, now, Phillip!" He turned to Keturah and grinned. "You can put his leg down, Princess."

Phillip's pale skin flushed scarlet. "Oh, I beg yer pardon m'am. You'll have to excuse my indecency. I'm rather incapacitated at the moment and –"

"It's quite alright," Keturah said, setting his leg down gently and returning the blanket over him. She patted his chest assuringly. "You only need to worry about recovering."

Phillip smiled. "Yes m'am."

Keturah went about and continued helping Crevan position the soldiers such that he could access their wounds. The healer was gentle and strong in his actions, experienced and quick so that the minimal amount of pain had to be endured. Those soldiers who were conscious had overheard the conversation between her and Phillip and reached out their limbs to introduce themselves. Keturah, having done something similar in Brightwall, returned their politeness and wished them a swift recovery. She did not enjoy seeing them suffer.

Crevan sat by the fire with her as the sun set. "You're stronger than you look, Keturah- err, Princess."

She giggled softly. "You may call me by my first name, it's perfectly acceptable."

He chuckled in relief.

"You said you were from Aurora?" She inquired, accepting a hot cup of herb tea he offered her.

He nodded. "That's correct."

"How was it you met Major Swift, being halfway across the ocean and all?"

Crevan took a sip of his tea and hummed at the pleasant warmth. "The major was part of the elite guard that accompanied your brother on his trek to Aurora. Of course, he was only a captain, then…and younger. Regardless, a regiment of soldiers were stationed in the city of Aurora while another went on a scouting mission. That's where I met ol' Swiftie."

She smiled. "And how did you come here?"

"I was in the area on business," he replied nonchalantly. "I saw what dire need poor Swift had and offered my services."

_Hm._ _I'm sure those services are quite extensive_. She thought. This man was a healer by trade, but the hard, budging muscles that were evident in his shoulders, chest, and arms where the leather was tight to his body looked as though they would be better suited for a warrior.

"Are you keeping secrets from me, Crevan?" She asked blatantly, concerned over the cryptic nature of his speech. She'd believed him to be honest. She didn't think of any of his words as false, just that he was being extraordinarily candid.

"Secrets, no," he replied, shifting his strangely-colored gaze to her. "Information, yes. Nothing I have said to you is a lie."

"Just a half-truth," she muttered in frustration. "Why not tell me everything?"

"Surely you do not wish to be bored with the details of my life," he jested.

Before she could retort, a soldier awoke and grumbled out a request for water. Keturah stood to meet the call, setting on the cot with the soldier's shoulders against her lap while she propped up his head and aided him with the act of drinking. She took care not to pour too quickly, lest he be overcome and start to cough and jar the bindings around his chest.

Crevan watched with a keen gaze the entire duration of her actions and followed her as she returned to her seat near him.

"I want to know what an Auroran is doing in Albion. I want to know why another bearing your trappings murdered a man who'd plead forgiveness. I want to know the reason for stringing me along like some sort of puppet. The path I take rests on my decisions and no one else's. I do not like being herded into a fork in the road and being forced to chose!"

Crevan did not so much as blink. "Like your brother made you do with that boy?"

Keturah shrank from him as though he'd physically burned her. "How do you know about that?"

He shrugged. "People talk, Keturah."

"Not about _that_!" She hissed, feeling the anger and sorrow well up anew. To say she had forgotten about Elliot would be unfair. There was not a day that passed that she did not question her decision, question if there was another way things might have transpired had she fought a bit harder.

"They do," the healer replied with a nod. "You are a very brave soul, Keturah - and not because you chose the life of the one to save the lives of the many. You are brave because you choose to shoulder the burden of an entire kingdom. I only hope your strength can carry us through what is to come."

Keturah bristled. "Do not speak as though you know me!"

Crevan remained unperturbed by her anger. "I speak simply as an observer and nothing more. You are an enchanting person, Keturah. You are gentle and kind, perhaps to the point of being naïve. But you are also fair and just and exert force when needed. People look up to you. You are a Hero and a leader."

She stood hastily and fled, down the stairs of the mezzanine and toward the wall. She was panting heavily by the time she arrived, not from exhaustion, but from the effort of swallowing the sobs that threatened to overtake her. Tears did not win wars against Hollowmen or lead revolutions. She had to be strong for these men and for their families and for the people of Albion. She could not cry.

Crevan was lying, she was not brave. Brave Heroes didn't cower from the world to school their emotions. She was a princess, born in a castle and pampered her entire life. Compared to Phillip, Bernard, Jamie, Scott, Ben, Swift, and Jayne, she had not a care in the world. They were wounded, cold, grown up under Logan's tyranny. She had remained blissfully unaware of their problems.

"Come to accept the invitation to man the Mortar, have you?" Ben inquired, stepping down the stairs toward her.

"The healer seems to have everything under control," she stated, doing her best to grin nonchalantly. "And you did say to meet you by the wall."

"That I did, Princess. Follow me."

She followed him up the stairs. Ben certainly was a handsome, well-cut man. From a posterior view, he was almost as fit and firm as he appeared from the front. But she could not enjoy the view and went on broodingly. Elliot hadn't had the muscles Ben had. Elliot hadn't been handsome like Ben was. Those thoughts themselves were a slap in the face of his remembrance. _You are gentle and kind_, rang Crevan's words mockingly in her skull. She was hardly gentle and kind if she laughed in the face of her betrothed's memory by gawking over a soldier like some love-struck school-girl.

She gasped in terror when she saw the man who was to be her loader.

"Don't worry," Ben assured her. "Once you get used to him, he isn't repulsive at all."

She waved away his snark. "Jamie! In Avo's name, you need to see Crevan!"

Jamie grinned stupidly. "It's Jammy, now. Seven-hundred and twenty-six wounds and still standing!" He saluted the captain grandly.

"Luckiest sod in the fort, too," stated Ben with a nod. He looked at Jammy and added, "At ease, soldier," with a hearty chuckle.

Ben hopped onto the mortar and demonstrated how she ought to fire the contraption. She watched the captain launch a few practice rounds and observed how eerily well Jammy was able to life the cannonballs and heft in the powder without so much as a groan of discomfort from his wounds.

"Your turn, Princess," Ben said, hopping down from the large weapon.

Keturah gripped the handles and tugged herself into position.

"Aim fer those scarecrows," Jammy said, gesturing to the northwest.

Keturah eyed her target and fired. The cannon met its mark and the pile of sticks shattered. Jammy reloaded and Keturah aimed for the second dummy they pointed out. It met a similar fate.

"Two for two!" Ben announced triumphantly. "Let's see if you can hit the third!"

"Its jus' there t'the left- 'ang on. I dun' remember settin' this one up…"

The scarecrow jerked as the last rays of sun descended and cast the entirety of the woods into darkness. White-blue wisps began to burry themselves in the ground and resurrect the corpses and bones long forgotten beneath. The scarecrow tugged itself off of its supports and wailed menacingly toward the fort.

"Fire, Princess!" Ben ordered, shouldering his rifle and taking aim at the quickly approaching horde.

Keturah spotted a large mass of Hollowmen on the right flank and launched a shot from the mortar. The heavy ball exploded on impact, decimating the ranks of the undead that had previously stood there.

"Nice shootin', Princess," Jammy panted, reloading the mortar quickly. "I daresay you're better than Capt'n Ben!"

"Let's not push it so far, Jammy," Ben chuckled, firing a round from his rifle and managing to strike a keg of gunpowder that had been left in the northwestern quadrant where a small legion of Hollowmen had spawned. The explosion was enough to incapacitate all of them.

"You're quite the sharpshooter, Captain," Keturah stated with a smile and continued her work with the mortar, focusing purely on the Hollowmen hordes where they crowded. Ben could pick off the stragglers with his rifles. The large crowds were her own responsibility. Sweat beaded from her brow as she tugged the heavy weapon from one side to the other, accosting the Hollowmen and reveling in the sound of their inhuman moans as their brittle bones and dried rags were engulfed and butchered with shrapnel.

Ben picked off the last of them with his rifle.

Jammy, the captain, and Keturah cheered, Ben gripping the others in a hug of victory. It was short-lived, however.

"They're at the front gate!"

It was Bernard's cry she heard. She disentangled herself from the captain and bolted forward, pouncing from the mezzanine and onto the floor.

Bernard and his compatriot threw their weight against the gate. The force however, proved too great for the exhausted soldiers to handle and they were buried under shattered wood. More wisps ventured into the fort, resurrecting the bones of the old and newly dead. The Hollowmen roared furiously, having been woken from their slumber.

"Fire!" Came Swift's voice, followed by gunshots by the soldiers who'd had the presence of mind to gather their weapons.

"Bollocks," breathed Keturah, seeing the advancing army of the damned.

"My sentiments exactly," Ben grumbled at her side.


	9. Wounded

**Chapter Seven**

**Wounded**

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><p><strong><em>AN: I wanted to thank my readers and reviewers. You all have been great and I appreciate the support. _**

**_I have something fun for you: I've begun illustrating some of the characters and uploading them to photobucket. You can see them here: photobucket[dot]com/albums/cc490/FooFoo_Cuddly_Bottoms/The%20Albion%20Hero%20and%20the%20Auroran%20Legend/_** . REPLACE THE [DOT] WITH A PERIOD. **_It is password protected. So make sure you put in "Keturah" as the password and you should get access. Currently, I have Ben, Crevan, Walter, and Dara on my list to illustrate. I will gladly draw more if they are requested._**

_**Again, thank you very much for your continued reading. I hope you enjoy the chapter!**_

**Disclaimer: I know Jammy dies...but this is a fanfic. I was so pissed I couldn't save him in the game so I'm doing it here, gosh darn-it!**

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><p>So this was how it ended…<p>

Keturah was growing weary. The men in the fort had fallen, dead or unconscious, before Lieutenant Simmons' fury, leaving Keturah alone to battle the brutish Hollowman and the hordes of minions he ceaselessly summoned. She'd reloaded her rifle countless times and the wounds in Simmons' rotting flesh clearly demonstrated that she'd been an accurate shot. The undead horror had slowed down and the wisp that powered him seemed to be having difficulty animating the hulk of rotting tissue now that its anatomy had been chipped away by bullets.

She fired the last shell she had on her, the shot burying itself between Simmons' eyes an earning her an inhuman wail. Keturah fled as Simmons charged toward her, rolling and dodging quickly, a skill learned from her ordeal with Saker. She drew on her magic, praying that she could control it and not damage any of the already injured men.

Fire formed in her palms, every muscle in her body taught as she gathered energy from within herself to direct at the Hollowman. He lumbered closer, but not close enough. She didn't trust her aim and stood, flames dripping from her palms and she stared down at the undead corpse. The horror bellowed and prepared to charge her down.

_Closer_. She ordered him silently. He haplessly obeyed. _Closer_…

She unleashed the flames, the fiery grenade landing squarely in the middle of his chest. The Hollowman wailed in pain, but continued his charge, the wisp seeming to struggle with the effort of keeping the burning corpse animated long enough to exterminate her. She'd waited too long…she was going to be crushed.

A dark shadow blurred her vision before a vice-like grip found her arm and dragged her harshly out of Simmons' path. She stumbled, unsure of her footing on the mud in the fort and dazed by what had just happened. Simmons' collided heavily with the fort wall and causing the mezzanine to shudder with the force and sag under the trauma. Keturah tumbled, grunting, into a pile with the shadow that had knocked her off her feet.

She shook her head and, bewildered, and looked down to see that she was clasped tightly against the torso of a cloaked, hooded figure. The now-familiar cowl and hood kept the stranger's face concealed. She was too dazed to think of the impropriety of her straddling the man with her chest compressed tightly against his.

The man did not look at her. He instead grunted and raised his arm, tugging a pistol from a holster under her right hip and gripping the weapon. She felt his breath tighten as he steadied himself for a shot. The hammer struck, the spark ignited the powder, and the casing was launched from the barrel of the pistol.

Keturah glanced over her shoulder to see the burning Simmons stumble backward once more, colliding with the support of the mezzanine. It again trembled at the blow; a thought occurred to her. Keturah summoned the heat in her gauntlet, focusing with all her might on the precarious stone supports. The ball of fire was released from her hand and arched gracefully, colliding solidly with the stone and creating an avalanche of debris onto Simmons' body.

"Nice shot, Princess," said the hooded man. "I do think that's the last of him."

She bristled. This voice was hauntingly familiar. It was not Crevan's. She realized with a start that the hand that had drawn the pistol had been his left.

Shrieking, she balled her fist and brought it soundly against the man's jaw and stood away from him. He snarled in shock and pain, gladly releasing her. While he was on the ground, she brought her foot up, hard, into the fork of his legs, clumsily tugging her sword from its scabbard.

The man let out a high-pitched yelp and curled in on himself, groaning in agony.

Keturah looked down on him, her sword drawn and at the ready. She hated how the tip quivered in her hand, showing her inexperience, her exhaustion and her terror. She could not let this assassin see it. He'd damaged her once already. She would not permit him the pleasure of doing it again.

The man did not move, but took deep, steadying breaths, his hands clasped protectively over his groin.

"Murderer," she hissed.

"That's a fine form of thanks," spat the man. Even the sardonic tone was familiar. "I pull you out of the way of a stampeding brute and you go and assault my manhood and then call me names." He cringed and let out another moan before trying to rise, "If this be the behavior of Albion royalty, I daresay the kingdom is doomed."

"Stay down," she ordered.

The man did so, remaining cross-legged before her, his position relaxed despite having the tip of her sword against his throat.

"You really need to work on your manners, _Princess_," he said gruffly, his voice cracking here and there from the blow to his groin. In any other situation, it would have been comical.

"You're one to talk," she seethed, pressing the blade harder into his throat and earning a hiss of discomfort. "Who are you?"

"I'm quite sad you don't remember me, Princess," he said with a laugh. "Or is it Jimmy?"

Her eyes narrowed and she cuffed him roughly on the head with the hilt of the sword before returning the blade to his throat.

"Ouch!" he snapped, raising a hand to rub his head where she'd thumped him. "Why do you women _insist_ on striking me?"

"Answer my question," she demanded. "Who are you? What do you want with me?" There were many more burning at the tip of her tongue, but she pointedly decided to keep things simple. She could inquire about Saker's death later.

"That's one more question than before, Princess. I'm not entirely sure my attention span is long enough-"

She cuffed him again. This time, however, she gathered a fistful of the cowl and jerked his face toward hers, the sword pressed against his throat. Her actions succeeded in tugging the fabric partially off of his face, revealing a straight, elegant nose. The rest of his features remained hidden.

"Answer me!"

"Or else what?" the man laughed, seemingly unphased by the blade, the lumps on his head, or the fact that she was holding him by the throat.

"Or else-" She faltered. She really had no threat. Her anger burned and demanded vengeance. But that was hardly fair. He had saved her, after all.

"You'll kill me?" he propositioned. She heard the mocking lilt in his voice. "I think we both know how untrue that is, Princess. If you had wanted to kill me, you'd have run me through when I was helpless on the ground before you."

Furious, she threw down her sword and raised her fist to assault his face.

The assassin was quicker. A flash of shadow blurred and suddenly a hard hand fell on her wrist, jerking her sideways and folding her arms over her chest. In the time she'd taken to toss aside her sword, the man had risen to his feet, anticipated her movements, and pinned her; now she stood, effectively pinned with her back against the hard leather of his jerkin. She struggled, attempting to stomp on his bare foot with the heavy heel on the military boot. But when her foot struck the ground, it met with rock, not flesh.

"Little spitfire, aren't you?" The man inquired, not even the slightest strain in his voice as his arms kept her pinned despite her struggle.

Keturah threw her head back to try and strike his nose, but ended up whacking her skull against the hard leather over his collarbone. She hadn't realized when he'd been sitting that he was so tall…even taller than Walter or Crevan.

She grunted in frustration, continuing to writhe in his grasp. "What do you want with me?"

His response startled her. "I want you to stay safe and alive."

It was effective enough to stop her struggling. She froze and stiffened, troubled and dumbfounded beyond movement.

"There, not so terrible to act civilly, is it, Princess?" The man said and released her.

She turned and stared at him, watching as he replaced the cowl over his nose. "Who are you?" she demanded again.

He chuckled, the shadows over his face almost twisting into a smile. "I am no one to be trifled with."

"Keturah!" It was Swift's voice that called her attention away. "Thank Avo! Are you hurt?"

"No, I'm perfectly fine!" She called to Swift where he emerged from over the hill of rubble. She turned to sneer at the assassin, but found that the man had disappeared as quickly and mysteriously as he'd materialized.

"A bloody Hero, indeed," Swift murmured, taking her hand and escorting her delicately over the fallen stones that had crushed Simmons.

The pair rendezvoused in the central area of the fort, taking account of the dead and wounded. It had been a hard battle, but most of the men had sustained minor injuries: a cut here, a bruise there. The death toll was six, including Bernard. The young soldier had sustained a fatal wound Hollowman's scythe, slicing him open from the point of his shoulder to the bone of his hip. Keturah felt the backs of her eyes sting with tears at the loss. The poor boy had been so full of hope only hours ago. She could not cry for him. Not yet.

Crevan moved around to the injured, assessing them and giving instructions based upon the severity of their wounds. The Auroran, for his own part, had sustained a harsh blow to the head and a gash above his brow was sticky with blood.

"Damn bugger hit me with the butt of the rifle when it was out of shots," Crevan explained, seeing her look of concern. "I'll need stitches, if you're not too squeamish."

Keturah nodded mutely, still dumbstruck by the devastation and numb with loss.

"That was pretty damn impressive!" Came Ben's voice came weakly. "So your father wasn't the last Hero of Albion after all." He pulled himself into a sitting position and leaned against the central statue of the fort grounds. His hand was clamped against the right side of his hip, blood seeping beneath his fingers.

"I told you not to move, boy," Crevan warned, casting Ben a stern look.  
>"I'll survive," muttered Ben. "It's him you should be worried about."<p>

Keturah looked over to where Crevan was gently assessing Jammy. It was difficult to tell fresh wounds from old ones, the poor private was so badly injured.

"Lucky blighter, he is," Crevan murmured in awe. "Shot in the chest and it just so happens his bones were strong enough to prevent it from going into his lungs."

"Jammy bastard," laughed Ben heartily. He soon regretted his action and winced, biting his lip.

"Here, lass, help me with these folk," Crevan said.

Together, Keturah and the Auroran hefted the injured to the infirmary up on the mezzanine. There was a fair bit of trouble getting them up the stairs, though Crevan informed her that another Hollowmen attack would result in a bottle-neck of the undead – the stairs were the only way up and the task of picking them off would be much quicker. Ben, Jammy, and Phillip were the most severely injured. Crevan took it upon himself to see to their wounds while Keturah tended to the main mass of soldiers, cleaning wounds here, bandaging there. Most seemed oblivious of their pain and were far too drunk on the euphoria of the realization that the impossible had been accomplished – they'd held off the Hollowmen attack and eradicated them.

Major Swift was the last to receive treatment. A Hollowmen's blade had gashed his upper arm. "We did it," he breathed as Keturah tucked the tail of the linen strip to secure the wrapping. "No, really, we did!"

Ben grunted from the gurney beside the major. "Let the poets sing of our epic struggle then. The Swift Brigade fought against impossible odds! And won. The end." He pushed himself up on his elbows, grunting.

"I told you not to move, boy," Crevan scolded again, though he sounded tired. The Auroran knew full well that Ben would do whatever he bloody well pleased.

Ben waved his hands dismissively at the older man. "It's just a scrape. The thing won't even mar my impressive physique nor my devilish good-looks."

"Shut up, Ben. It's a damned bullet wound and you know it, you blooming barmpot," Crevan laughed.

Ben ignored the Auroran. "Well, Sir Walter, you didn't do too bad, for an old man."

Walter glanced down at Ben from where he stood near Swift. "Neither did you. For a buffoon."

The group laughed and Walter gripped Major Swift's uninjured shoulder. "So, what do you say? Will you join us? With your help we can put a stop to Logan's madness, bring back the _real_ Albion army."

Swift thoughtfully struck a match and lit the cherry-scented snuff in his pipe, chewing on the stem thoughtfully as he puffed rings of smoke into the air. "I swore to serve my king to the death – we all did." He glanced ruefully to the most severely wounded soldiers. "But this isn't the way it was meant to be. The old guard has been shoved aside and these new soldiers Logan's been getting…they don't care about this land or its people."

Ben scoffed. "And I'll be they get paid more. Oy, you old minger, get me some water, will you?"

"That's a fine way to speak to your princess, Captain," Keturah chuckled, relieving Crevan and bringing a ladleful of water to Ben.

"Oh, my lady," he chuckled while Swift and Walter continued to talk of the revolution. "You must know I wasn't speaking to you. I wouldn't pull with talk like that regarding a woman."

Ben drank and Keturah took the ladle from him, chuckling and shaking her head. She'd read about men like Benjamin Finn in the adventure stories that littered the library. They rotted her mind, particularly when she was supposed to be concerning herself over the domestic affairs of running the household, but she could not help but be fascinated by these strong, charismatic men who could charm their way into and out of many a situation. She'd been right her assessment earlier. Ben Finn was a master of his art and she was not so haughty as to believe herself unimpressed by his charm.

"Very well," came the closing statement from Walter, drawing Keturah's attention back to the two older military commanders. "We'll make way to Bowerstone. There are some allies there I've yet to recruit."

Swift nodded. "We'll accompany you after making the necessary arrangements. Crevan? Can the men travel?"

The healer looked dubiously to the three seriously wounded men. "We might get so far as the Mourningwood camp, but they'll need close observation and time to recover." He cast a harsh look to Ben, "Particularly _you_."

Ben batted his eyelashes innocently.

The preparations were made and plans engaged. The soldiers marched to the Mourningwood camp with the more seriously wounded carried on makeshift litters. The people in the small village were more than welcoming, arranging a neat and tidy area for the wounded to rest and recuperate until they could complete the journey to Bowerstone. Keturah volunteered to stay in the camp with Crevan while Walter and Swift continued on to Bowerstone to scout out the remainder of the resistance. She and the Auroran worked in shifts, each allowing the other to rest. She was precious little help to the older man, she knew, but she was able to care for the less severely wounded while he focused on those requiring more skilled experience. Phillip was not doing well, nor was Jammy. Ben simply behaved as though this were another chapter in an adventure novel and it would soon be over with. One would never have guessed the amount of pain caused by his wound.

The business of removing bullets was not one which Keturah had fancied herself entering when she'd begun her journey. It was not one she desired to continue, either. Removing the bullet from Jammy's chest was agonizing. The poor man was delirious from blood loss and fever, screaming and seizing during the entire procedure. Crevan held him restrained while Keturah worked to remove the musket ball from under the skin near his rib. By the time she'd finally managed to grasp the ball of lead and tug it from his flesh, her hands were covered to the wrists in blood and her soldier's uniform stained. If the screams had not been enough, the smell certainly was.

"He's septic," Crevan explained, washing the wound out thoroughly with a deep burgundy liquid. Jammy was to the point of exhaustion and could only moan incoherently. He lacked the strength to struggle.

"Here," Creven went to Ben as Keturah washed her hands of Jammy's blood, her heart in her ears. She was still terrified at the thought of hurting the soldier, listening to him wail as her fingers writhed against his bones to retrieve the bullet.

"Never happened before," Ben pouted as Crevan helped him sit up right.

"Getting shot?" The healer inquired with a chuckle, carefully removing the soiled soldier's uniform.

"Getting undressed by a man," Ben clarified with a wince. "I never thought it would be pleasant…thank you for confirming my suspicions."

"I offer my services wherever I can," Crevan replied mildly.

Ben chuckled. "Sorry, mate. This is as far as it goes. I sailed Albion for years. I've seen too many people with sticks up their arses to want one for myself."

The Auroran only chuckled as he carefully settled Ben back on the pallet. The captain whistled a cheerful jig, seemingly oblivious to any discomfort. Crevan glanced to Keturah and the light is his eyes was sympathetic. "You don't need to do this, girl. The captain knows how to deal with pain. I can fetch the bullet."

"With those enormous sausage fingers?" Ben exclaimed from the ground. "You've already undressed me, Crevan! I'm not letting poke any part of your anatomy into me!"

"Shut up, Ben," snapped Crevan, his patience wearing thin. The healer glanced back to Keturah. "It's your choice."

She gulped. Crevan had asked her to retrieve the bullet from Jammy's wound simply because he worried that she would lack the strength or know-how to keep the man still enough that he did not further injure himself. The case with Ben was different. The bullet still had to be removed and the smaller the fingers that delved in the better.

"I'll do it," she said, swallowing her hesitancy.

Crevan was kind enough to preserve both the captain's decency and Keturah's virgin eyes by strategically placing Ben's jacket over his groin. The bullet had gone high of the large artery in Ben's inguinal region, according to the Auroran, and had probably lodged against the bone cradle of his pelvis. Keturah's hands were flighty as her fingers lightly pressed against the enflamed, filthy, bloody skin surrounding the wound. Crevan poured more of the amber liquid over the wound, making Ben grunt. She glanced up at him sympathetically before brushing her finger over the entrance. She peered up at Ben to gage the amount of pain it caused, hesitantly bringing the cool knife near. There was a slight tightening of the captain's jaw, but little clue other than that. She didn't understand it, but Crevan had informed her that plainly-cut skin healed much better and more easily than it did when torn. She would have to cut away some of Ben's flesh, as she'd had to do with Jammy.

"I do appreciate the foreplay, but let's get this over with, shall we, Princess?" Ben said with a wink.

Keturah did her best of offer a smile, though it felt watery. She glanced back down to the wound, took a deep breath to steady herself, and slit the wound open a little wider to allow her fingers ample room for entry. The process was not as brutal as Jammy's and the act was quicker. Ben did not struggle or writhe. Instead, the captain maintained slow and steady breaths, his blue eyes staring blankly at the gnarled tree that had suddenly captured his attention. His jaw remained clenched.

She was bloodied halfway to her elbows, but she successfully removed the casing from the captain's body. Hesitantly, she held the wet, slippery trophy up for Crevan to see.

"You both owe me a drink," Ben wheezed, his brow beaded with sweat as he glowered at the cause of his misery.

Keturah chuckled softly, stepping out of the way for Crevan to examine the wound. "It would be my pleasure, Captain."

Over the course of a week, the Mourningwood Camp emptied of the Swift Brigade until only Crevan, Keturah, Phillip, Jammy, and Ben remained. The princess and the healer continued their shifts, Keturah taking the daytime hours and Crevan the night. The man promised her that he had no trouble keeping awake and alert in the darkness. Of course, any time there was a serious emergency, Keturah would have to rouse the sleeping man and have him instruct her on the proper procedure. She had to wake him less and less as time progressed, thankfully.

Phillip and Jammy remained seriously injured, though Ben was awake much of the time and constantly bickering with Crevan, arguing about remaining bedridden. The tiffs typically ended with a muttered "Shut up, Ben" from Crevan and complaints from Ben regarding his utter boredom.

That morning, Keturah returned from purchasing food stuffs from the stall vendors at the nucleus of the Mourningwood camp, settling down to begin preparing the healing broth Crevan had taught her to make.

"Good morning, beautiful," came the greeting from Ben's pallet.

Keturah nearly flinched. Elliot had said that to her every morning when they had their walks around the palace gardens. One of those days, he'd spoken to her of the people in the Mourningwood camp and their desire to be one with nature. She'd believed the way he'd spoken about them to be foolish and naïve. She had been right. Mourningwood was no romantic place where unicorns grazed, Hobbes finger-painted pictures of rainbows and sunshine, cats and mice were friends, and fairies made their homes in peaceful tranquility. It was not a perfect paradise away from the terrors of the city. It was a graveyard of bones and memories alike. Elliot had not been buried. The firing squad had led him to the front of the castle and riddled him with bullets. His body had been discarded into the waste heap and incinerated. He had been treated like garbage, died a martyr. But it was _her_ name the people whispered in awe.

"Good morning, Captain," she replied with a moderate delay, keeping her focus on the pot before her so that he would not see the glassy fog in her eyes. "How are your wounds?"

"Better, as I've been telling that old prat for days now." The last part was spoken with some bitterness. "Your turn on watch, I take it?"

She nodded, continuing to stir the broth. "As you may have noticed, Crevan takes watch during the night and I've the day shift."

"Yeah, I noticed that," Ben nodded, stretching with some trepidation. "I've seen him sneak off into the woods a few times, too."

"Using the privy no doubt," Keturah promptly defended.

Ben shook his head, his lips tight. "No. There's a communal privy over on the western slope of the camp so that no one is unlucky enough to stomp in another man's…scat, so to speak." Ben shook his head. "He's a good healer and all. I trust Swiftie's judgment on that. I don't think he means any harm. But I still don't like him one bit. He's too…creepy, I suppose is the word."

"I think you have hard feelings toward the man for the simple fact that he's ordered you on bed rest," Keturah said with a laugh.

Ben scoffed. "At least you have a job! I'm left laying here practicing ventriloquism with my cock-" an awkward cough interrupted him before he continued, " belly-button!"

Keturah laughed despite herself at that. "And a fine skill you're developing, Captain."

"Aren't I?" he inquired cheerfully. "Perhaps I'll earn myself a position as an entertainer in your royal court once this whole revolution business has been finished."

"Oh, I'm sure you'd be quite the hit," Keturah laughed. "All the old biddies and haughty nobles coming to salivate over a fine specimen of the Swift Brigade flexing his muscles…" she half-blushed and turned her head before adding sardonically, "sounds like the position most can only dream of."

"You make it sound so terrible." Ben stated with a wag of his brows. "So when this whole thing's done, Logan dethroned and humiliated and tarred and feathered and all that, you'll be made queen, yes?"

She smiled, though it felt like more of a grimace. "So Walter plans."

"I suppose you have a fellow waiting for you back home, do you?" Ben inquired. "Another revolutionary like yourself?"

Keturah bristled. His timing could not have possibly been any worse. "Surely you've heard the talk." She glanced at him with a hard look over her shoulder.

Ben met her gaze, his expression open, honest, and genuinely perplexed.

She sighed and shook her head. "Never mind. No, I haven't a gentlemen waiting for me to return."

The captain nodded noncommittally. "Hm. Plenty of potential suitors, I take it? Is that what all the talk is about?"

Keturah laughed, though the sound held no mirth. "There are absolutely no potential suitors, Captain."

He did not seem to hear the ice in her words or notice the pain in her eyes. He continued to pester. "Ah, can't hold a light to your standards?"

"Nobody has stepped to the fore," she clarified for him, her voice harsh.

Ben was quiet for a bit. The broth came to a boil and she removed the pot from the fire, partitioning out servings. Since Ben was awake, she supposed he could receive his serving first.

She approached the pallet and helped him to sit up and to clasp the bowl in his rough hands.

"Thank you, Princess, much obliged," Ben said with an easy smirk before quickly gulping the liquid. She'd heard on numerous occasions that it tasted like Balverine piss. But none of the men could deny the potent healing effects.

He cringed, swallowing the last mouthful and setting the bowl down. "It never gets any better," he lamented, wiping his mouth distastefully on the back of his arm.

She took the bowl. "Crevan says you'll be free to join Major Swift in a day or two."

"Did he, now?" Ben inquired, perking up instantaneously. "Why didn't the old sod ever mention it to me?"

Keturah sneered, "He likes watching you writhe."

Ben laughed heartily, remaining in his upright position. Cautiously, he moved his legs such that his knees tented the blanket that covered him. It suddenly came to her attention that the captain was completely naked save for the thin layer of fabric used to keep him warm at night. Crevan had not allowed him back into the uniform for fear that the wound would fester and they'd have to go through the painful undressing process once more. And there was no denying that the uniform did little to enhance the captain's fine physique.

She realized that she was staring and hastily snatched his bowl and marched away.

"Oi, Princess?"

"Hmm?" she turned to him, glad her hair was now long enough to cover the redness of her ears.

Ben grinned knowingly, brushing the blond fringe from before his eyes. "Were you serious about owing me a drink?"

"I suppose," she answered hesitantly. "Why do you ask?"

He shrugged, feigning innocence. "I was hoping you'd accompany me, rather than throwing me a few gold pieces and saying, 'Good luck, get lost you stupid blighter'." He gave her a saucy wink, "I promise I'm a good-looking man under all this dirt and gore. I clean up nicely. If the setting's right, I can even teach you how to dance properly. It was painfully obvious in Brightwall you hadn't ever danced with a man before."

Keturah was half charmed and half offended at his talk. The captain was openly slandering Elliot, calling him little more than a boy. But he was only joking. The light in his eyes told her that he hadn't any idea as to what he was playing at.

"I'll pay the bartender myself, Captain," she said and could not help but smile.

She had difficulty falling to sleep that night. Ben Finn's words kept whirling in her mind from earlier that day. He certainly was an excellent story teller. Jammy had lived up to his namesake and woken, completely renewed as though he'd never been wounded at all. Of course, the private soon fell under the same curse as his captain: boredom. So Ben had entertained the private with stories of his adventures in Bloodstone, sailing the seas of Albion, getting into brawls and spending his nights with various harlots of questionable character. He had the experiences most men did not. He had been to the other parts of Albion, lived among the kingdom's people as a smuggler and now as a soldier. He knew the fears, desires, hopes and dreams of the people. She did not. Other than conveniently being a 'Hero' and being of accidental relation to her father, it was deemed that she would be the next queen after the revolution. But she knew nothing. She'd grown up in the palace and had rarely been allowed outside save for the market of Bowerstone Old Town and the Market District. But that had been with her mother and Keturah had been small. Her father had been highly protective, after that. It was nothing unbearable, of course. She was seven and expected to begin her training in the art of reading and writing so that she could manage domestic affairs. She had been prepared for such a life, boring as it seemed. She was not prepared to lead or rule a kingdom.

Her turbulent thoughts stuttered to a halt as Crevan stood from his post near Phillip. Keturah hastily forced her breathing to slow, her eyes closed to slits to observe the Auroran as he pulled up his cowl and hood, stepping deftly off the small dais they'd been positioned on. Crevan walked silently into the forest, his shadowy trappings quickly engulfed in the foggy garments of the trees. She eyed the emptiness he left sharply, gooseflesh raising on her skin. Something was not right. Ben's comment on his disappearance did not alleviate the feeling of wrongness either. Even if he had been going to the privy, he would not have drawn his cowl and hood.

She waited for a few moments before grabbing her rifle and slipping into the forest after him. The thought had never occurred to her _how_ she was going to find him or what she would do if she did find him. His garment mimicked that of the left-handed assassin, a faded, dark brown the same color as rocks and sand in the moonlight. Crevan was surely of the same brotherhood, suggesting a knowledge of stealth. She already knew he hardly made any noise when walking, particularly for such a large man. The display at the Mourningwood Fort had certainly demonstrated his prowess as a warrior. Keturah hardly had formal swordsmanship or marksman training, much less knowledge of how to track someone through the woods and silently accost them.

Thankfully, she did not have to venture too far before she heard a hissed, "Keep your voice down! I thought I heard something."

Keturah pressed herself against the thick trunk of a tree and held her breath, hoping that Crevan and whomever else was with him did not discover her. The healer was a nice enough man, but Ben had planted a strong seed of doubt. She began to see the inconsistencies in his behavior. To begin, he was far too insightful on the current goings-on in the world when he'd traveled nowhere in the past month. When Keturah inquired about his origin and what had brought him to her kingdom, he'd been far too vague in his answers and reasoning for staying away from the sun and sand in Aurora to remain in Albion. It felt as though she were a piece in some game being played, as though things continued to fall into place to lead her down one specific path. And Crevan was simply a tool to guide her in the correct direction. She did not like it. Anger swelled up in her breast and she braved peeking around the tree.

The darkness was such that she almost did not see the two men, standing in the shadow of a large oak tree. She recognized one to be Crevan from the thick muscles and broad shoulders. The other was taller, slimmer, and more elegant-looking. Crevan had chosen to become unhooded and uncowled while the stranger remained concealed in the shadows of his cloak. She could see the Auroran's lips moving and heard low tones being passed between them, but she could not hear.

Ever so slowly, she crept forward, doing her best not to make noise in the mud or the water she passed over. How a man as large as Crevan managed to do it was beyond her.

"-not sure. Nothing ever is." The voice of the stranger matched the left-handed assassin and her anger surged.

"But if you're not, why are you here? Surely there's something-"

But Crevan was interrupted by a sharp curse from the other assassin. Keturah realized with a start that he had seen her. Forgetting stealth, she rushed forward, unsure of what she was trying to do. Catch him? Try and question him again? She truly wasn't certain and yet truly didn't care. She glanced away momentarily to find the hilt of her sword in the darkness, preparing to draw it.

By the time she'd reached Crevan and looked back up, the other man had disappeared, lost in the fog and the shadow of the night time forest.

"You're up late, young lady," Crevan reprimanded, standing much like her father had when he'd scolded her for a similar action as a young girl.

"You're one to talk," she spat. "Who was that, Crevan?"

"Who was what?" He replied, eyebrows raised.

"Don't play coy with me!" She shouted. "That man killed Saker in cold blood! He's stringing me along like some bloody puppet! Who is he? What does he want?"

"Saker killed many others in a like manner, Keturah. Was it so unfitting to meet a similar end?" Crevan responded.

Keturah snarled. "I am not debating the ethics of that action now! I want answers!"

"I can give you no answers," Crevan said calmly. "To find the solution you seek, you'll need to search for yourself. You are the princess. Your kindness and your will are strong, but you are yet imperfect. You concern yourself over trivial matters. You have doubt in your own abilities. You lick wounds that may have healed long ago. I can promise you this: fate is a strange mistress and she tugs us all along our varying paths as strands in a loom. She weaves a tapestry of happiness, tragedy, peace, war, pain, pleasure, death, and life. We are but single threads in the story of her choosing."

"Do not speak to me in riddles!" Keturah bellowed. "Is that man the 'fate' you speak of? Does he pull you along as he does me?"

"We are all equally acted upon by fate, Princess," Crevan said his voice mellow. "But we have choices and control. You could have killed him, had you truly wanted it. You're a good shot – I've seen you fight. But you chose not to."

"I- that is completely inconsequential to –"

"Quiet, Princess," Crevan scolded, sounding very tired. "You need your rest. Come. Let's return to the camp. My business here is finished."

Keturah was left to sputter, trying to find a suitable retort. Nevertheless, she crashed through the forest after his silent footsteps. "What trivial matters, Crevan? I'm to lead a revolution! I'm expected to kill my brother! Those are hardly trivial matters."

"I said no such thing," the healer retorted, sounding almost angry. "You have a tremendous burden on you, Princess. I do not envy your lot in life in the least. But in order to do what you must, you need to become stronger."

She screamed in anger and frustration. His words had bitten her too deeply and she lashed out the only way she knew: she drew her fist to strike him.

Crevan moved with a quickness belying his muscular bulk. He gripped her wrist, easily brushing aside her assault and causing her to tumble forward. In one fluid movement, he caught her by the back of her collar while drawing a small, wicked-looking knife from somewhere on his person. The blade hovered near her throat.

"The first lesson is to curb your anger," Crevan said. "A berserker rage will do nobody any good. A strong person is good in a fight. A stronger person knows when to stand down and pick their battles."

He released her and sheathed the blade.

Keturah's vision was rimmed in red, her teeth clenched tightly together and her nostrils flared. He was right and she knew it. There was no argument to be made. There was nothing she could do. He would out maneuver her in every way. She would wait for an opportunity, just as he had instructed. Then he would be sorry.

Crevan seemed to understand this from her glowering and he nodded toward the camp. "Come. You've a watch to take tomorrow."


	10. A Request

**Chapter Eight**

**A Request**

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><p><em><strong>I wanted to give another thanks to all my readers and reviewers. I great appreciate the support and input I'm receiving as I spin this tale. It means a lot. I especially want to thank D-Ro2593 for his Beta-reading services.<strong>_

Don't forget that I've begun a gallery of the characters in this story. Keturah and Dara have been completed and Ben, Walter, Crevan, and Kalin remain as sketches. The link to the gallery is here: [DOT]com/albums/cc490/FooFoo_Cuddly_Bottoms/The%20Albion%20Hero%20and%20the%20Auroran%20Legend/ .

__ Remember to replace the [DOT] with a period. _**The album is also password protected…just enter 'Keturah' at the prompt.**_

_**Thanks again! I hope you enjoy the latest installment!**_

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><p>Dara stood on the gates leading out of the Crawler's cavern, the fine hair all along his spine prickling with discomfort. He felt a thousand eyes on him, knew the malicious intent behind each and every one of them. The Veil pushed at the edge of his vision, promising chaos, calamity, and catastrophe. The streets of Albion and Aurora would run black with darkness and spilled blood. The queen would fail. Aurora would be lost. The Apocalypse would come and disintegrate the world as it was known, chasing humanity into the very corners of the globe, cowering in the light while the Darkness pillaged the land.<p>

Their gaze assaulted him. They were growing stronger and ever more powerful. The day of the coming was drawing closer and closer. The Albionian Hero could not arrive in Aurora fast enough; he did not know when and he did not know how, but she _would_ arrive. All he knew was that there were certain events that would be set in motion to either bring her to the coasts of the forgotten city of Aurora or doom her to die in the sands. But he did not dare scry to find the answers. Not again. Not with the Darkness so close. It manifested itself in his fears and his doubts and there was little he could do to school such thoughts when the Veil existed before him. For now he could pretend that he did not have fear. He could pretend that he was brave. The Darkness knew his fears, though it was frustrated at the difficulty of manipulating them. Things which struck most into a frozen, muted horror only made Dara's nose twitch in displeasure. The voices in his mind assailed him with images of death, corpses, the dark, the shadows, mercenaries, bandits, monsters, Sand Furies, blood, rot, decay… The Darkness had only scratched the surface of the true terror in his heart. For now, he refused to acknowledge their existence. Not here. Not with the Crawler's home so close. There was too much danger.

"You wished to speak to me?" he inquired, seeing a woman approach him from the right, her garments billowing in the wind, her face and eyes protected from the whirling sands by goggles and a mask.

"Yes," she replied, her voice beautiful and strange at the same time, like sand running through an hour glass. "On two accounts."

He nodded, face hidden and hood drawn, "I will see what I can do, Neygine."

She knew that he hated this place, knew how the Darkness called to him and plagued him. She had called the meeting to mock him, to laugh at him anew. Neygine enjoyed seeing his discomfort with the Crawler and its children so close, took great pleasure in seeing his pain and torture. He knew she could see the fine hairs on end, see the gooseflesh that rippled on the exposed skin on the back of his hands, see his markings glow as the magic within him awoke at the threat, see the vessels at his neck and wrists grow thick with rushed blood flow. He knew she was smiling beneath that mask. She tolerated him simply because it was necessary and beneficial for her and her clan; he tolerated her for a like reason. Theirs was a business relationship and little more…one that would quickly disintegrate once the chaos had stilled and the world had tired of peace once more.

"A number of us are peak for ritual. We will need sacrifices."

Dara grimaced. He knew what these rituals entailed. "How many?"

Neygine let out a series of insect-like clicks, similar to curses in her tongue. They frequented her speech when dealing with Dara. "Four, perhaps five."

"No." He said plainly, lips pressed into a thin line.

"You will have us make do with one? Surely even you are not so stupid as to believe the desired results can be obtained with so petty of a number," Neygine pressed mockingly, one hand on her hip.

"You may have them, but they will not be killed," Dara stated firmly, folding his arms over his chest, meeting her mocking gesture with an authoritative one.

She hissed angrily. "You spit in the face of our customs!"

"Times are hard and pickings are slim," he retorted. He tapped his fingers on his elbow testily. "Make it look like an accident and ensure that their lives remain intact."

Neygine bristled visibly. But she knew the implications of going about taking her sacrifices any other way than was offered. The city had a defense in place. Though it was weakened, it was still present. Hers was a clan seeking alternative means of life and surviving because of their tenacity and willing to become more flexible. Dara was the liaison and the peace-keeper to make sure that discussion did not disintegrate. Neygine did not like him one bit and had tried to usurp his authority among the Aurorans. The results had been disastrous for her, resulting in heavy casualties for her tribe. She would accept his terms, but she would not relish the agreement.

"Your very existence is a slap in the face of our customs," she seethed. "I wonder why I do not draw my blade and slit your throat."

"Because I provide what you need," Dara hissed in return. "And I am working for both of our interests. Your culture be damned if it is so backward as to demand attention to superfluous detail over the lives of its people."

"I care not for you or your people," Neygine snarled. "And you care not for mine! A creature such as yourself hardly deserves to live, much less assume he is a selfless protector."

"I care not for you or yours," Dara stated simply, confirming her accusation. He assumed nothing. He knew full well he was not selfless. In the past, he'd often turned to dark comforts: wine, women, murder. Those had been curbed a great deal, but still very much existed. He was more prone to enacting vengeance rather than showing mercy. Theresa, the blind Seeress and his sporadic mentor, had done well to discipline him. He still dabbled in those forbidden pleasures every now and again. Perhaps when the Darkness was not so terrible of a threat he'd return to his wicked ways. Living as a monk among the Wraiths had certainly chilled whatever fire had burned in his loins.

"Now, to return to the discussion. You may have four. No deaths. Make the event appear accidental."

"Disgusting creature," she muttered with a few clicks. "So difficult to stomach. So difficult to negotiate with. So stupid as to think he knows what is best. So foolish as to think he belongs among the Aurorans."

Dara's jaw tightened. The blow had been a little too close to the mark. "I have my place and that is enough."

Neygine scoffed, rolling her shoulders to try and relax the tension borne from anger. Her gloved hand hovered over the hilt of her sword. Dara remained stoic. He was just as quick as she was if not quicker. Anything she could launch at him, he could counter.

"I accept your offer," she spat before adding, "There is another matter, however."

He nodded in acknowledgement.

"A man from Albion, Reaver, has captured much of the tribe."

Dara laughed. "How did that happen? Thought it would be jolly good fun to burst from the sands and poke at him with those rusty swords? Is that why you require 'sacrifices' as you call them?"

Neygine let out a series of clicks, informing him of the validity of his words. She then retorted, "The last time such an event transpired it ended with a curse upon me and mine."

Dara grinned devilishly, though she could not see the emotion from under his cowl. "And that's the worst that's happened to you? I'm honored."

"Do as I ask: retrieve my tribe, or what's left of them, and in return we will hold the Darkness at bay for a fortnight."

His eyes narrowed. "You would risk such a thing?" He understood the gravity of such a promise.

Neygine regarded him levelly. "I care for my people as you should yours. There is risk to us in performing the action. But I want my people returned safely." As an afterthought, she added, "Many of mine see you in the desert and curb their instinct to act. You are a disgusting wretch fit to burn. Your death would be welcome, as I'm sure you know. Let it be clear, Seer, that I do not make this agreement out of adoration of you."

"It is perfectly clear." He stated his upper lip curling. "And I do apologize," he replied with a snarl. "But I've a purposeful niche yet. I'm sure I will fill the desired post of 'corpse' for your clan all in due time."

"It cannot be soon enough," hissed Neygine. "We will come tonight. Try and provide an ample enough distraction. If you can manage that much, incompetent, ugly thing that you are."

"Oh, I'm sure I'll do just fine," grinned Dara. "You sure you don't want a tumble? You seem rather repressed."

Neygine clicked. "Not if you were the last man on earth."

"I take it you're up for the ritual, then?" He sneered with a wicked chuckle. "What are you? Two and thirty? You're well past the required age, as I recall. Times truly are desperate," Dara jabbed at her.

Her shoulders tightened anew and her fingers twitched at the hilt of her sword. "Be gone, foul creature - before I'm tempted to cut out your tongue."

Dara bowed sarcastically and sauntered back toward Aurora. "As you wish, your majesty!"

He slipped along the dunes, Tantalize unsheathed and at his side. Neygine's tribe had a truce with the Aurorans. They subtly worked against others of their kind, trying to prevent the Darkness's coming, understanding the grave mistake it was to have such a vile god. Most of her kind worshiped the Darkness and reveled in its coming. It was they who were likely to pick off folk at random, particularly a lone man walking through the desert returning to Aurora. Everyone in the city knew to travel in groups.

Neygine's story of Reaver discomforted him significantly. After the vision of the Hero being violated for the sake of his ritual, Dara hadn't the best attitude toward the man. Indeed, everything surrounding the deviant lodged the weight of unease in Dara's stomach. These things could not be coincidence. Reaver was tied to both the old Hero King of Albion as well as the man's daughter. But the connections did not end there. Unfortunate paths of fate had lead Dara to be associated with the filthy wretch as well. Now Neygine's folk were caught in the terror the man brought wherever he went. Dara could only hope that that was where the associations ended.

Dara returned to the city, sheathing his blade and passing through the streets as a shadow. Folk noticed him, surely, but few paid him much mind. A few of the stall vendors and merchants waved to him to buy their wares, though he stepped past quickly and slipped up the stairs toward the temple and Kalin. His sister was waiting for news, greeting him with her customary nod before ushering him away from the chanting priests and into their private chambers so that they could speak more openly without the threat of prying ears.

"What did she want?" Kalin inquired, not bothering with pretense.

"A favor," he half-lied. "A man in Albion has visited the desert and collected a few souvenirs that were unjustly acquired. She politely requested that I repossess them."

Kalin grimaced. "And why is that our concern? What does this man have to do with our people? We've our own problems with the Darkness and the Children. We do not need to be dedicating resources to helping people who'd sooner kill us than helps us."

"She promised to hold off the darkness for a fortnight if I can recover the remnants of her tribe," Dara added.

"A fortnight," Kalin spat. "A fortnight, Dara? That is nothing! It is enough time to wish our neighbors goodbye and huddle in our homes while the city and the land is pillaged and torn asunder by the Crawler and its spawn! A fortnight is nothing! A year, even a month would be more help!"

"A fortnight is extra time that we hadn't before," Dara reasoned. "It gives me another few weeks to maneuver into Albion, help the Hero get a seat on the throne, and hope she sees it fit to aid in our plight."

"The Hero will become the ruler of Albion?" Kalin inquired. "And you _hope _she sees it fit to help?" The calm reserve had slipped and the scathing note in her voice felt akin to lashes of a whip against his skin.

Dara opened his mouth to speak, but a raised hand and flustered sigh from Kalin hushed him.

"I _know_,"she breathed, pinching her brows between her fingers, offering him a glimpse of emotion reserved for so few. "'Nothing is certain'. You say that far too often, Dara." She lifted her head from her hand. "She will be queen? Your Sight has shown you this for certain?"

He swallowed and nodded.

"Then will she help us?"

"That, I cannot promise," Dara lamented. "Many obstacles lay in her path. She needs help to accomplish the task, strong allies and friends. She will need to be on the throne of Albion if we are to receive any aid against the Darkness."

Kalin breathed out heavily, schooling her emotion as her father had taught her so well. Her walls only ever weakened around Dara. They were each other's confidantes, sharing in the other's weakness and providing support. It was inhuman to have such restrained emotion. Kalin radiated calmness in the face of utter chaos and cried publicly with families over their losses to the Darkness. Never was she angry, frustrated, or hopeless. At least not before the others.

For his own part, Kalin knew what he was and accepted him regardless. She could look at him with his horns unfiled, his body unbound, his strangeness exposed and not cringe. He was certain others would do just that if given the opportunity. He hid his true nature as best he could: filed the horns, wrote off the strange markings that glowed with Will as tattoos, kept to himself as much as possible. But there was something unseen about him that set people on edge. He knew full well why and did not begrudge them a bit. Most were rational enough to realize that he'd done them no wrong and their feeling of unease was unjustified. None of them had a reason to do so, to believe him harmless. None but Kalin.

But he was a creature of the Darkness. Its voice was in his mind, it's tendrils twined around his neck, its claws around his heart. His past actions were a credit to that. He did not fear death. He did not fear pain. What terrified him more than anything was a future the Veil constantly dangled in front of him: Kalin, the Aurorans, the Wraiths…dead, vanquished by the Crawler and the Children…or the other vision, in which peace had returned: merchants sold their wares, couples meandered hand-in-hand down toward he docks or up to the lookout of Aurora, the priests did their rituals with the flowers collected from the desert, and perimeter patrols were set up for any of the desert riff-raff which might enter. In each vision, Dara saw himself jailed by shadows, either of regret and remorse, or ostracism…he would be alone, spared because of his blood and his powers. Or he would be alone because he did not truly belong to the Darkness or the Light. He would be alone. All alone.

"Sister," he pleaded as he removed the hood and the cowl. "Please. I must go to Albion and I will bring the Hero. The Veil whispers of misfortune that she cannot comprehend. If we are to protect Aurora, I must keep this girl safe."

Kalin's eyes were glassy as she looked to him. She reached up and touched his face, her thumb brushing against the markings beneath his eyes. "Your horns are showing again," she said, concern furrowing her brow. "What is it you are not telling me, Dara?"

_Damn her and her insight_. His horns were like fingernails. It took a good month or so before they were visable past his hair…under normal circumstances. He'd been close to the Crawler and the Darkness, felt the Children's voices under his skin and in his skull, _Join us. We welcome back the prodigal son._ Those were hardly standard conditions for Dara and they provoked the revelation of his true nature. He was only glad the Will had stopped humming through his body.

"Please trust me and know I mean no harm," he murmured. "I leave tomorrow for Albion. Stay off the streets for tonight's feast. The less you are exposed to, the better."

"The less I am exposed?" She demanded, anger flaring. "I tire of your riddles, Dara!" Kalin shouted.

His mouth tightened and jaw became firm.

"I wish you would speak straightly with me and tell me your plans! If I can understand –"

"Then you will worry," he interrupted her. "And you've enough to contend with in the safekeeping of the city. I will bring you the Hero. Continue to pray to the Light. We will need every bit of strength and aid we can gather.

He turned on his heel and retreated, silencing any further interrogation.

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><p>Dara would have gladly taken Neygine's ritual over the boat journey and now being trapped once more in Albion. The ship had deposited him in the Driftwood camp, leaving him to travel through a portion of the Silverpines, Millfields, and then onto Mourningwood. Everything was so green. Even the light that filtered through the trees was tinged with the ill coloration of the forest. It looked weak and sickly compared to the bright, amber rays that warmed the sands of Aurora.<p>

One of the Wraiths, Niyol, had awaited him and given him updates of the Hero's location and movements, explaining that she'd remained in Brightwall for a time before making plans to travel with an older man by the name of Sir Walter Beck to Mourningwood Fort. Niyol also explained that the pair sought to recruit the help of the soldiers stationed there and that an informant had been planted.

"That Sight of yours is mighty useful," mused Niyol, grinning and showing a mouthful of half-rotted teeth. "I'd fancy borrowing it for a day or so. It helped us get Crevan there in time. I'd imagine it probably helps you plan what sorts of charms to lie on a woman."

Dara laughed to hide the grimace at his words. "Even the Sight won't help you in figuring out women," he explained, patting the informant on the back as they parted ways at the edge of the forest surrounding Millfields. "They're far too loony for any sane man to comprehend."

Niyol cackled at the statement. "Light help us all if even the Seer is kept in the dark about the fairer sex!"

He hadn't known, then, that his own jests of his inability to predict women was terribly true.

He went to great lengths to arrive to Mourningwood Fort in a timely manner. His progress was slowed in the final moments as he approached the actual structure, however. He had to travel by tree tops and branches to ensure that he remained mostly hidden. He had a vague idea of what resources the king's soldiers possessed: tired, disillusioned men full of doubt and sorrow and sickness. He sincerely doubted they'd have scouts with their limited numbers. Not that one needed to scout for Hollowmen. They were as predictable as the poor souls that wandered the earth each Samnhain night.

It was a surprise, then, that when there was approximately half an acre of forest separating him from the structure he spotted movement among the forest floor and pressed himself against the tree trunk of the branch he'd been balancing on, hissing at the inconvenience. Shifting himself such that he could easily view the approaching person, he tracked the movement of the brush and the soft fall of footsteps, unmoving and observant. The human eye was attracted to movement by instinct and years of training had taught him to bypass normal human functioning. He became hauntingly still; even his chest seemed to still as he watched and waited for the individual to cross his field of vision, straining his ears to triangulate the person's movements and guess where they were beneath the canopy of trees.

A man wearing the trappings of the Wraiths stepped lightly along, his hood drawn and his gaze watchful and keen on the ground beneath his feet, searching intently.

Dara allowed a breathy laugh before he lowered himself to a crouch and skipped nimbly down the levels of the tree branches before plopping silently behind Crevan. "Good to see you're still intact, despite the ordeals of Mourningwood."

The healer made a sharp intake of breath and spun quickly, his hand at his hip to draw a knife. "Crawler's tits, Dara!" Crevan exclaimed, removing his hand from the dagger. "Is it really necessary for you to creep about as you do?"

"You seem a bit miffed," mused Dara. "You must have known where I was."

"Gobshite," rumbled Crevan with a laugh, gripping Dara by the forearm in the customary greeting. "Take it Niyol gave you the news, did he?"

Dara nodded. "Filled me in on quite a bit. How are you faring out here?"

Crevan shrugged. "Wave after wave of Hollowmen. I feel bad for the poor lads Logan's stationed here. Sends them all out to do dangerous flaff like this…I don't understand it. What news have you?"

"Niyol reported that the Princess and an escort are heading toward the fort."

Crevan scoffed. "I could have told you that, you blinkin' berk!" He nodded over his shoulder toward the fort. "The girl was cocking up some Hobbes earlier. It won't be long now before they're at the gates."

"Best go greet them, then," Dara stated. His cheeky grin was hidden behind the cowl.

Crevan seemed to understand his intent nonetheless. "Yes, yes. I'm ever the social one. What do you know of the Hero?"

Dara shrugged. "Scrying hasn't been clear. I only know what I've observed of her in the Mercenary Camp. She's a deadly shot with a rifle, decent with her magic and I sincerely doubt she properly knows how to wield a blade."

"And you expect her to do battle with Hollowmen?" Crevan inquired skeptically.

"I'm sure she'll do perfectly well, provided she has enough ammunition to pepper them to death and isn't stupid enough to let one too close." Dara defended self-assuredly.

The healer chuckled. At the next question, however, his tone became serious. "What of her character? After the tales from the ruddy sods in the fort about the King…" He trailed off. The tales of the King and the empty promise he'd made to the people of Aurora were heavy in all of the people's minds. It was particularly so for Crevan, one of the men who had saved the ungrateful brat that was Logan from the Darkness's maw.

"I don't want to be bringing another Logan to Aurora. Kalin's heart would break."

Dara nodded solemnly. "The Hero is merciful as well as kind-hearted. It is almost to the point of being naïve."

Crevan nodded. "Sternness can be taught. Kindness cannot." He scratched his jaw lightly from above the cowl, still regarding Dara levelly. "Well, it's good to have your watchful eyes on me again, Seer."

Dara nodded. "I'll be close."

And close he was. He could not have timed the event more perfectly had he tried: the Princess had just arrived in the fort with a man he could only assume was Sir Walter Beck. He'd left Crevan to his herb collecting while he sat, crouched, above the arching stone of the fort's main gate, keeping to the shadows and the swirling mist. He'd witnessed her before, but he was eager to examine her once again after his more recent and frightening touches with the Veil. Her hair had grown significantly and, if it was at all possible, she appeared even taller than she had before. The top of her head was nearly equal with the blond soldier who began showing her about the fort. The softest glowing could be seen at her temple and the corner of her jaw, where her Will use was beginning to become apparent. Her face remained as open and curious as ever. Guards existed behind the kind gaze, but they were not defenses born of Reaver's assault. That horrid event had thankfully not yet transpired and hopefully never would.

He remained ever vigilant throughout the day, ever watchful and ever careful of his steps. He remained silent and unseen…until the giant Hollowman formerly known as Lieutenant Simmons was resurrected from the dead. Only then did he move closer, prancing about on the mezzanine, struggling over indecision of aiding the Hero or maintaining silent observation. She was doing relatively well. That was until she waited too long after launching a fireball at the brute to try and roll out of the way.

Dara had never moved so quickly in all his life as he did then. Thoughts blurred and instinct was a stern master. He leapt from the balcony and across to the Hero, gripping her arm and tugging her from the path of the stampeding Holloman. In his rush, he'd forgotten about the changing terrain and the shock that would come from suddenly being grabbed and shoved in an unexpected direction. He and the Princess collapsed onto the floor, though he did his best to shield her from the blow of scuffing along the ground.

He saw her glance to him, her lips in a rounded 'o' of shock, before her attention was drawn away as Simmons collided with the mezzanine. The fiend rounded its gaping, rotting gaze toward the two of them and Dara shifted the Hero's weight enough that he could tug Desert Fury from the holster at his hip. He aimed and fired, causing the Lieutenant to stumble backward marginally.

To his surprise, he felt a sudden surge of warmth from the Hero through his armor and looked to see the Will marks on her glow molten orange with the concentration of energy through her body. And then, just as quickly as the plant-like tracings had begun their glow, they vanished and she hurtled the flames toward Simmons, toppling the unstable mezzanine atop of the animated corpse.

"Nice shot, Princess," he said, deeply impressed. "I do think that's the last of him."

She stiffened against him. He wasn't entirely sure what he'd been expecting, but it was hardly a scream and a blow to the face. Or the strike that followed the initial attack.

Seer's inability to predict women indeed.

Dara had had misfortunes, in the past, where a careless misplacement of a foot or comment had earned him a blow to the groin. But every single one of those experiences paled in comparison to having one's family jewels assailed by a Hero. It were as though he were sent down a line of ten horses and each had an opportunity to strike his nethers with a buck. He heard himself yelp as the pain coiled in his pit of his stomach, causing him to reflexively curl in on himself and lay still until the throbbing ache and the light nausea dissipated. He made himself take deep steadying breaths, knowing that she was standing over him and that he had to leave, least she do something rash.

"Murderer," she hissed.

His temper got the better of him. "That's a fine form of thanks," he spat. "I pull you out of the way of a stampeding brute and you go and assault my manhood and then call me names." The long-winded retort made his stomach convulse in pain once more and he moaned and cringed against it. He lay still a few moments, allowing the pain to dissipate. Then slowly, carefully, he began to uncurl himself. "If this be the behavior of Albion royalty, I daresay the kingdom is doomed."

"Stay down," she snarled at him when he tried to stand.

Just as well. His knees were watery anyways. So he sat cross-legged before her, lifting his jaw and offering his throat nonchalantly as she pressed the tip of her blade to his neck. He was not afraid of her. Had she been willing to kill him, she'd have done so.

She did not speak for a long while. She simply stared at him, her dark brows knitting into a frown as she peered down the length of her blade at him, scrutinizing. He could nearly hear her thoughts they blazed so brightly from her eyes. He almost felt guilty for being privy to such an intimate part of her, but did not dare look away. To do so would imply fear. He was hardly frightened. And, more than that, he was genuinely curious about the skinny little creature that was to be their savior.

"You really need to work on your manners, _Princess_," he stated gruffly. Kalin had described him, once, as being like a child in at a traveling circus poking sticks through lions' cages to get a rise out of the ferocious beasts. Well, the princess did not appear like any lion he'd seen. But that did not prevent him from jabbing at her…save he was unequipped with a stick. He did have a rather gifted tongue, however.

"You're one to talk," she retorted, her voice high strung and her words sharp.

He took the time to observe her once more, now that he had the opportunity to do so when she was not far away nor clad in a surprisingly convincing mercenary disguise. She was not pretty in the conventional sense with heavy eyelids, long lashes, large bust, wide hips, and narrow waist. She was a thin, pallid creature, to be sure, and her lips were bloody from being worried between her teeth. While the few curves she did possess were well-disguised in the soldier's uniform, she did have hips on her. They were proportionate to her shoulders and there was precious little, if any, difference in the circumference of her hips and waist. Her breasts, sadly, appeared little different than his own. Shame, too. He rather liked ample-breasted women. Hell, he rather liked _feminine-looking_ women, with long hair, wide hips, and soft flesh. This Hero appeared quite sinewy with cuts, scrapes, bumps and bruises all along her body. The only feature that was distinctly feminine about her was her lips: full and of the softest shade of pink.

Her blade pressed harder against his throat and he hissed in discomfort. The marginal pain was a welcome distraction to the dark path his thoughts were beginning to travel.

"Who are you?" she pressed.

He laughed. "I'm quite sad you don't remember me, Princess." He cocked his head to the side. "Or is it Jimmy?" It was terrible of him to mock her, he knew. His temper was not in the best sorts after the blow to the groin and he needed to buy time until someone…_anyone_ provided an ample distraction to allow him to escape.

She cuffed him on the head, the hilt of her sword banging against the hard growth of his horn and causing vibrations to echo through his skull.

"Ouch!" He snapped, his vision half-blurred by the blow. "Why do you women _insist_ on striking me?"

"Answer my question," she demanded, her voice half-quivering with uncertainty. "Who are you? What do you want with me?"

Oh, now this was just too much. "That's one more question than before, Princess," Dara stated, grinning snidely behind his cowl. "I'm not entirely sure my attention span is long enough-"

Another blow from the princess silenced his glibness. Then, with a surprising amount of force for such a scrawny-looking woman, she hauled him to his knees, tugging his cowl down and forcing his face toward hers. He'd been wrong when he said that her lips were the only feminine thing about her: her lashes were some of the thickest he'd ever seen.

"Answer me!" She seethed, her warm breath brushing against his face.

His response was a laugh. "Or else what?"

"Or else-" The anger that had so boldly embodied her eyes ebbed a bit and doubt began to settle in. He saw a small war being fought in her mind, a decision she was making on an answer. The woman had a temper, that was certain, but it was not enough to cloud the basest of her faculties of judgments and reasoning. Did she have a breaking point?

The wait for her to come to conclusion drew out uncomfortably.

He felt unbearably naked with his nose exposed. She didn't recognize him. That much he knew for certain. But if she were to draw the cowl far enough down or fling the hood from his head, he would lose precious footing in her fate. "You'll kill me?" He propositioned, taunting her. "I think we both know how untrue that is, Princess. If you had wanted to kill me, you'd have run me through when I was helpless on the ground before you."

The war in her eyes stopped and the anger returned. Ah-ha…now she became stupid.

He was ready the instant she threw her sword at the ground. Before the metal clanged, he'd ducked beneath her grasp and taken a firm grip of her wrist, tugging her roughly and forming binds of her own limbs against her breasts. He pinned her against his chest, half tickled and half annoyed at her continued struggle. She was a strong little thing, that was for certain. He had to extend a bit of effort to keep her under control, even when she was given the lower hand.

He hastily stepped out of the way when she tried to stomp on his bare foot. "Little spitfire, aren't you?" he inquired, one part amused, two parts impressed.

She snarled and threw her head back, landing a hard, harmless blow to the jerkin over his collarbone. She grunted, continuing to struggle and writhe in his grasp. "What do you want with me?" She demanded, desperation tearing through the haughty reserve.

Dara's tone took on a more even timbre. It lost the mocking lilt, his temper released the firm hold it had had on his actions. Now was the time for truth. He doubted she'd believe him or understand, but he could not play with shadows and tricks forever. Best begin to earn her trust now. He'd need it not far down the road. "I want you to stay safe and alive," he stated simply, his voice firm and not unlike the one he used when issuing his men orders.

She tensed and ceased her struggling at his reply. _She can be shocked into compliance?_

"There, not so terrible to act civilly, is it, Princess?" he said, releasing his hold on her wrist and stepping away from his position behind her.

She turned, her lips parted in mute awe as he replaced the cowl over his nose. "Who are you?" It was still a demand, but her tone was softer, less pompous.

He chuckled at the change in character. She would not make so terrible a leader after all. "I am no one to be trifled with," he replied.

"Keturah!"

Her name being shouted by one of the soldiers drew her attention away long enough for him to bolt from his place and leap out of the fort through the holes created by the mezzanine's tumble. He hastened to a nearby tree, taking up a scout's position so that he might watch and listen to the occurrences that transpired. His heart was in his throat and it was a struggle to force his breathing to remain quiet while he watched, thoroughly impressed once more with his experience with the princess-Hero. This was what Albion and Aurora needed. She would aid them when no one else could.

Crevan was late this night, which was unusual for him. Dara had been out scouting the surroundings for the past two days and had only returned to the Mourningwood camp at sunset. The aging healer was Dara's strategist, of sorts. He managed to take the convoluted images that assaulted the Seer and force them into a sensible compilation of facts, fiction, and possibilities. Crevan had asked about what was occurring outside of Mourningwood, where he was trapped keeping watch over the Princess and other wounded soldiers.

He arrived quietly, wading through the waist-high pool of shadow and fog. "What news?" the older man asked, wasting no time in getting down to business. He removed his cowl and hood. Dara knew the healer found the things restraining and uncomfortable and wore them out of a sense of duty rather than practicality.

"Tensions are rising at the palace with the loss of the Princess…" Dara began:

"I went to the castle last night, just to pay a little visit to Logan to see how he was doing on that promise he made to my sister almost a decade ago. The guards he had in place are ruthless bastards, to be sure, but they haven't the wit to look _up_ for an enemy. Pity, that. The old guard was much more resourceful. Regardless, I was able to observe a meeting between he and Reaver in the War Room."

* * *

><p><em>'Any news of my sister?' Logan inquired, pacing around the table and glowering down at the map table as though it would suddenly spill forth the answers he sought.<em>

_ 'None yet, your majesty,' Reaver replied smoothly, brushing a long wisp of hair to the side. The brightness of the fire in his eyes did nothing to alleviate the darkness in their depths as he regarded the king. 'There are rumors that she was seen by the Swift Brigade during a routine stop to Brightwall. Perhaps she sought to read your father's history?'_

_ 'My father has no history,' Logan spat. 'He may have been born a Hero, but he did not die one. He was a wretch, a cur. He could not see past his own selfish desires.' The sinews in Logan's hand budged beneath his skin as he gripped the edge of the table._

_ 'Yes. Leaving you the throne at such a young age. It was a cruel blow for a father to deal his son. And now you are all that stands between your Kingdom and impending doom.' Reaver mused, stepping close to the king and placing a hand on the man's shoulders. 'There there, your Majesty. You are doing all you can. A pox on the people if they do not see all that you sacrifice for the good of their safe-keeping.' Reaver's hand slipped down from the King's shoulder and traced a delicate line along his spine. 'Your sister has betrayed you, just as Swift and others have.'_

_ 'I do not know that!' The retort almost sounded pleading._

_ 'No need to have such a temper, Your Majesty,' Reaver countered easily, turning and reaching for the cups of wine that had been brought to them earlier that evening. 'Here, Majesty. Drink. It will soothe your nerves.'_

_ Logan did as Reaver suggested, downing the cup in a single, grimaced swallow and returning the cup to his financial advisor. 'She will be returned to the palace. I will not have her starting a foolish revolution. She had no power. Even if she were to bed every guard I have, a woman's influence can only go so far. As for Watler…well…he's just an old soldier.'_

_ He moved around the map, circling it like a vulture. 'What news is there of the factories?'_

_ 'There is unrest, Majesty,' Reaver said frankly. 'But nothing I cannot handle.'_

_ The King's response was a grunt. 'See to it they work. The kingdom needs revenue. I do not care if they are exhausted, overworked, underpaid, or underappreciated. At least they will be alive. One day, they will thank me.'_

_ 'Indeed, Sire,' Reaver nodded._

* * *

><p>"They exchanged a few more pleasantries…talk about the weather and all that. Logan was kind enough to ask after Reaver's health. He seemed out of sorts, however. More so than usual.<p>

I followed Reaver to his mansion that night. Neygine had inquired as to the fate of her tribe members. I was able to discover a few of the dungeons which stored a variety of creatures…Hobbes, Sand Furies, a few Balvarines, and some humans. They were there. From what I could gather of the guard's talk, they're to be the main entertainment of some party Reaver is to be hosting sometime in the near future."

"So we've a Princess to fuss over and Neygine's whims to be concerned with?" Crevan inquired. "Bloody marvelous, Dara. There are few of us as it is."

He grimaced. "I know."

"I don't like the sound of Reaver with Logan," murmured Crevan. "Logan is his father's child…surely the lad cannot be so misguided." He looked up to Dara inquisitively. "Does the Sight say anything to the effect?"

Dara shook his head. He understood the king's strange behavior: he had felt him. Those who had been touched by the Darkness could often fell one another's presence. "All the Veil has revealed is that the Princess must be kept away from Reaver."

"Bollocks, Dara, I could have told you that!" Crevan shouted, throwing his hands into the air. "I've seen Reaver in action. _I_ wouldn't want to be near him for too long for fear of losing _some_ part of my dignity."

Dara heard the softest squish in the mud followed by rather large snapping of a branch. "Keep your voice down!" He admonished the healer. "I thought I heard something."

The both of them remained quiet, each studying the surrounding darkness and listening for any sounds that indicated something was awry. No more came, so they continued their conversation.

"Walter has plans on sending Major Swift to the palace to gain insight on where the Princess might get more allies for the revolution," Crevan informed him, his gaze uncomfortable.

Dara laughed. "He'll find allies in Aurora."

Crevan nodded. "Perhaps you ought to pass on that bit of information to him? Before he runs into Logan and Reaver. I doubt the ending will be pleasant for him otherwise." Crevan pushed a hand through his mohawk, tugging the stray strands from his face. "I worry for the princess. Her burden is so heavy and she's much to learn."

"She will do well," Dara stated confidently.

"And you're here to make certain of that?" Crevan pressed. "She's much to learn. She still carries the deeds of a past life with her. In order to continue down this new path, she'll need to discard them."

"I know we all have much to learn," Dara stated with a nod. "The Veil had allowed me to see that much. But what transpires between now and then, I cannot be sure. Nothing ever is."

"But if you're not, why are you here? Surely there's something-" Crevan began to argue.

Dara cut him off, cursing violently as he caught a glimpse of metal flickering in the moonlight. He followed the glowing and met the doe-like eyes of the princess. Anger roared within their depths, echoed in the sudden surge in the glow of her Will marks. In the split moment of contact, she rushed forward, all blind fury. He held his ground, waiting for her to clumsily make a mistake, look away, or do something utterly stupid to allow him the chance to slip away.

It came when she looked down to grasp her sword. "Good luck to you," he murmured to Crevan as he stepped behind the nearest tree and threaded his way haphazardly through the fog.

"Thanks," spat Crevan before Dara disappeared into the night.


	11. Bowerstone

**Chapter Nine**

_Bowerstone_

_**AN:/ Many thanks, once more, to all of you who have kept with this story! I appreciate your support (silent or written) in this endeavor. Thanks again to all of you who have reviewed, favorite, and added this fic to your alerts.**_

As a heads up, this chapter contains points in the story told from Keturah, Dara, and Reaver. I try and make the transition clear, but just be aware!

Special thanks to D-Ro once more for Beta-reading services.

_**Don't forget the link to the gallery: [DOT]com/albums/cc490/FooFoo_Cuddly_Bottoms/The%20Albion%20Hero%20and%20the%20Auroran%20Legend/ .**_ Remember to replace the [DOT] with a period. _**The album is also password protected…just enter 'Keturah' at the prompt. Ben and Crevan's images have been added to the gang (although I really don't like how Ben turned out…his beard makes his head look too skinny). Walter is to follow! **_

_**Thanks again and enjoy!**_

* * *

><p>Keturah and Crevan maintained a rocky relationship after the ordeal in the forests of Mourningwood. Each was civil toward the other, exchanges passed between them as though they were old friends, and kind words and gestures were made when appropriate. But it was as though a chasm had developed between them. Keturah had believed Crevan to be incorruptible, a disjointed portion of the brotherhood the left-handed assassin belonged to. He had been kind to her, open with her (mostly), functioning almost as Walter did. He mentored her in the matters of healing and the matters of the mind. She'd believed him a kind man. But now she saw him as he truly was: a shrewd, surreptitious, soundless shade who was as much a part of that dark bonded brotherhood as was the man who'd slain Saker. He had fooled her with his kindness and the ease with which he spoke…fooled her into believing he was another Walter. Hardly. He was much sharper and a much better teacher.<p>

She had not asked him to expand on any of the statements he'd made that night. She had not made the inquiry of whether or not he would teach her to school her temper, her emotions…teach her to be a true leader. Walter knew how to help her become a soldier, help her become adept with a sword and a rifle, help her discuss political matters and make tactical decisions about battle. But she'd become far too skilled at hiding from him, letting him think the affairs in her mind were all neatly in order. This Crevan, this stranger, whether he acted as a piece in a chess game or not, had seen more of her true self than Walter or Elliot or Logan had in her entire time at the palace. She'd been schooled as a princess. Emotion was messy and unwanted. It was to remain bottled within oneself or it was to be locked away in the pages of a diary. There was no room for mess when managing a household. There was no room for mess when managing a kingdom, either.

But Keturah could not stop the tears that welled in her eyes as she clung tightly to Phillip's hand. Crevan was not there. He'd been escorting Ben and Jammy to Bowerstone to rendezvous with Major Swift and Walter. Not that it mattered. Even the most skilled of healers would do no good for Phillip now.

The corporal had wasted away, looking more like a Hollowman now than a soldier of six and twenty. Crevan was unable to control the infection and it had run rampant through his body. At most, he'd been able to dull the pain in the last moments. Keturah held Phillip's hand, offering him tenderness, warmth, and comfort as the light left his eyes and emptiness filled them. Strange as the observation sounded, Phillip's last breath sounded almost peaceful and accepting. Then again, Keturah did not understand why it would _not_ sound as such. Death was a release from pain, a release from suffering, a release from struggle, a release from life. It was not a punishment to the individual. It was a punishment to those around them. Did Phillip have a wife? A child? Had he a daughter who would never again have dance lessons with her father, or would never be given away? Had he a son whose marksmanship lessons would cease, or would never learn a trade or apprentice himself?

Had Elliot felt such about dying? Had he believed it a relief: an escape? Or had he suffered, as Phillip had, trying to cling to life he believed worth living?

"I am sorry, Princess," came a voice from across the dais and above her.

She hadn't the energy or the will to cringe. She swallowed against the tears, willing the wetness to stop. "Leave," she hissed, unable to find her voice.

The assassin stepped silently closer, despite her command. She watched without seeing him, keeping her gaze intently on Phillip's empty eyes, wishing her tears and her sorrow would leave her, wishing her pent-up mess did not chose now, before this _monster_ to avalanche and crush her reserve.

The man reached toward Phillip's face and she lashed out violently, catching his wrist in both her hands and digging her nails into the leather of the bracer there. She wrenched his hand away from the dead man. "_Don't touch him_!"

"I was merely closing his eyes, Princess," murmured the assassin, slowly retracting his wrist from her claws. The tone was strange, out of context with the behavior he'd displayed earlier. It whispered promises of comfort and conjured thoughts of happier times: warm milk and honey, the pleasant heat of her father's flesh when he'd hugged her good-night in his massively muscled arms. To say it was soothing did not begin to describe the sensation it evoked in her. It frightened her, put her on edge. Nobody's voice should do that, not unless there was something dark about them.

"A murderer such as you has no right to touch him," she maintained angrily, on the verge of sobs. "I'll do it." She must do it. She'd been with him as he'd died, comforted him as the unknown of death came for him. She was his princess, his leader. It was her duty to oversee.

She sat up and, shakily, brushed her fingertips over the corporal's eyelids. They slid shut easily. A wave of relief rushed through her…he no longer seemed so…_dead_. Merely as though he was sleeping.

The assassin stood nearby, silent and subtle as one's shadow in the twilight.

She looked up at him, glowering into the darkness that concealed his face. "Leave." She ordered, in no mood to do battle with her perpetual tormentor. She was exhausted, physically and emotionally. It only drained her more to have the man there. He put her ill at ease. There was something about him that was familiar and the way in which he spoke was unnerving.

"With all due respect, Majesty," he replied with a fair bit of the familiar taunting lilt, "I think it's best I stay."

He moved toward her and she hastily reached for her rifle. But she saw that he did not continue his advance much further and merely curled his long limbs into a cross-legged position. He was close to her, but not too close. He'd done nothing drastic enough to earn a bullet wound…yet. So she settled the rifle on her lap and gazed at Phillip.

The tears welled up once more. Elliot, Bernard, Phillip, Aaron, George, Taylor, Remington: all dead. It was all due to her, either directly or indirectly. Had she worked harder, had she done something differently, they'd be alive. Surely that was true. Surely she could have saved them. Elliot would not have been so brutally murdered, Phillip would have survived the wounds as Jammy and Ben had, Aaron would have paid more attention to the Hollowmen repeaters…instead, he'd been watching after her in the fray….

The tears came. And once they started, she could not stop them. Half a year's worth of reality washed over her anew and she wanted nothing else but to curl up under the plush covers of her palace bed and sob until she had no sorrow remaining to poison her core. She wanted it all to be a bad dream.

She was aware that the assassin was there, quiet, polite, not saying a word and keeping so still one might have mistaken him for a statue. Keturah was aware that he was the last person she ought to reveal such a horrid emotional state to, but she could not stop herself. Better in front of someone whose judgments she did not care for rather than the folk she was attempting to lead.

After a long while, the sobs that racked her chest stopped, finally, and she was reduced to sniffles of embarrassment as she hastily cleaned her face with the sleeve of her borrowed military uniform.

"Here," the man said, extending a rather large chunk of chocolate toward her.

She was hesitant.

"Come now, Princess. I know you've a fondness for sweets," the man pressed. She almost heard a smile in his voice. Almost.

"You may have poisoned it," she countered feebly.

The man scoffed. "Princess, had my intent been to kill you, I'd have done it by now. I promise, there have been plenty of opportunities."

She reached out and accepted the sweet chunk with great trepidation. But the assassin did not move from his spot past to retract the arm which had extended the small gift. Slowly, she nibbled on the candy, the sweetness of the chocolate melting in her mouth and returning to her the feelings of warmth and comfort.

"You've been spying on me then, have you?" She made the inquiry hesitantly. Perhaps if she could get him to speak a bit more, she might be able to discover what he was doing. She was nobody's game piece…but that did not prevent her from being curious. _How did he know my fondness for sweets? I'm sure I never mentioned it to Crevan._

"On and off, yes," he replied. "Though I prefer the term, 'Silent observation'."

"Spying," she concluded.

"You do not spy on a pianist when he is playing in concert. You do not spy on a magician when he entertains you with tricks and mirages," the man countered smoothly, his voice as rich as the chocolate in her mouth. "You watch with the intent of respecting them and their work. To speak and shout and cause an uproar would be considered rude. I merely watch the work you do with the soldiers and for the revolution and do not interrupt."

"Hm." He had a point and she was in no state to form a rebuttal. In the way he described himself, he was no different than Theresa.

"Why the mask?" she inquired next.

"I have no mask," he stated simply. She could imagine a cheeky grin beneath the murk of cloth.

She grunted in frustration. "Why the hood and the cowl? Crevan is free to remove his. Are you forced to wear yours?"

"I chose to of my own volition," he replied.

"Why?"

"Would you believe me if I told you it was an extension of my beard?" he inquired jokingly.

Keturah's narrowed. "No." She chewed another few morsels of the sweet chunk slowly. "Are you so frightened of me that you will not show your face? I feel honored."

"Frightened? Of a skinny little thing like you?" He laughed deeply. "No. I am simply frightened you will not trust me."

"I already do not trust you," she provided matter-of-factly.

"Nuance," he replied with a wave of his hand.

Keturah was not so easily deterred. "So what's a small chink in your already flawless reputation?"

He chuckled. "You've a sharp tongue on you, woman."

"And you've a sharp blade," she countered. "If you will not show me your face, tell me why you killed Saker."

He was silent.

"Assassin," she prodded after a while. "Tell me. You owe me at least that much."

"I owe you nothing," he countered, his voice losing the warm, soothing tones and becoming as harsh as a balvarine's howl.

"You owe me explanation!" Keturah raised her voice, now. "Something. _Anything! _I am not some puppet to be toyed with!"

He turned his head toward her, his face covered by a cowl and his eye sockets painted in darkness. She supposed he was assessing her, but she was uncomfortable beneath his gaze. It was piercing and made her skin prickle. Suddenly, she was struck with the notion that he knew far more about her than he should.

"I will answer a question if you agree to answer one of mine," he rebutted steadily.

"Any question?" He'd piqued her interest, now. He was still a murderous cretin, but she was determined to somehow gain the upper hand in this game of shadows.

He nodded with some hesitation. "Ladies first."

She chewed her lip. One question. There were many she had: who was he? Why had he killed Saker? What was the point of his game? What did he want from her, really? She hardly believed his selfless notion of 'I want you safe.'

"What is your name?" She blurted before reason could get the better of her.

He seemed as taken aback by her outburst as she was. "My name?"

_No. It was a slip of the tongue. _"Yes," she confirmed, feeling heat rush to her ears in embarrassment. What a stupid use of her question. But she was too proud to take the inquiry back.

"Dara," he provided hesitantly, as though calculating the harm she could do to him if she became privy to such information. "My name is Dara."

She nodded in acceptance. At least now she had a name to place with the voice.

Dara wasted no time in pressing the tense conversation forward. "My turn, Princess." He turned to face her fully, propping his chin on his hand and tapping the slender digits against what she imagined were his lips beneath the cowl. "Are you a virgin?"

Keturah's face flushed scarlet. "That is none of your concern!"

"Our agreement was that you would answer a question if I answered one of yours," Dara countered, laughter in his tone.

"Not that one! Pick another!" She retorted indignantly. Why on earth would he be concerned with such a thing? First Sara, then Ben, now this faceless creature!

Dara cocked his head slightly. "Very well, _Highness_," the title was murmured with some mockery, "Will you kill your brother when this Revolution is at its end?"

Keturah grimaced. Kill Logan? The people were expecting her to, Walter was expecting her to…but something didn't seem right. Logan had been a boy once, had been her brother, once. Yes, he was a tyrannical mad-man, now. He'd made her chose between the villagers and Elliot…but the darkness in him was not of him. It couldn't be. Something in him had changed and she would determine whether or not the damage was irreparable before deciding whether or not to cast him from Albion or allow him to stay.

"No," she stated firmly.

He did not seem at all surprised at her response. "You are indeed kind, Princess. I pray to the Light you do not lose it in the hardships to come."

She narrowed her eyes at him. He'd broached too many sensitive topics and outstayed his welcome. "Are we through?"

Dara stood. "I suppose so. Until we meet again, Princess." He nodded to her civilly and stood, backing away from her and retreating from the dais.

She watched him as he turned his back to her, determined to see the trick he used to disappear as readily as he did. He was silent and the mist lapped around his knees, but it was not enough to obscure the broad shoulders or the tall stature. This assassin, this 'Dara', was a strange creature, to be sure. But she was not entirely certain whether or not he was benevolent, maleficent, or benign.

"He's dead then, is he?" It was Crevan's voice.

Keturah glanced away toward the healer for half a moment, forgetting her focus on the retreating assassin. When she turned to look again, Dara's figure had vanished.

"Yes," she murmured, rising from her place on the ground. She was more than a little miffed at Crevan's interruption. "Come, we've business to attend to."

* * *

><p>Two full weeks had passed since his heart-to-heart with the Princess and he'd kept away from the lair of the Revolutionaries. In that time, he composed a letter to Kalin explaining the occurrences in Albion to date: the location of Neygine's people, the Princess's location and actions thus far as well as his thoughts and plans for the future. Major Swift was being dispatched to the palace to attempt to speak to the old guard and gather recruits for the young woman's cause. Crevan had been sent with him to plant the bug in the Major's ear that allies might be found in Aurora. The letter had been sent back to his sister with Niyol on a boat. Dara and the others of his order, Aindrias, Lugh, and Midir, remained in Albion yet and were helping him begin the preparations for freeing Neygine's tribe.<p>

The plan had been laid out carefully and each of the men had their roles. They'd discussed their tasks in a detailed manner, memorized each step and the timing needed to complete such a feat. There had been a map, check points, safety areas, guard patrols followed, learned, and memorized from the tracking on the map. Everything had been planned out so thoroughly…until little Miss Page had to muddle in his plans.

Theresa would have scolded him. He hadn't made use of the Sight enough, hadn't thought ahead far enough. He'd been too focused on keeping the Darkness at bay just a _little_ longer and had grown lazy and content in his baby-sitting duty of the Princess. Now this had happened: a party. To infiltrate Reaver's house and rescue her lost revolutionaries. How completely idiotic and short-sighted the little Bowerstone Resistance woman was.

"Page," Dara murmured, slipping from the rafters and confronting the revolutionary leader in her private chambers. He'd had to sneak past the guards, one of them being Benjamin Finn.

She shrieked, clutching herself and trying to preserve her decency. "Auroran! Have you no shame?"

He half-smirked at that. He hadn't _meant_ to stumble in on her naked but he couldn't exactly say that he was _sorry_ for it. He'd always found Page particularly attractive. "Come now, Page. I've seen everything there is to see."

She scoffed, but he did not miss the smile that curled her lip. "Don't remind me. Worst bedding I've ever had."

"Really? That's not what I recall when you were clinging to me and moaning my name so loudly the folk of Industrial could hear it over the roars of the factories," he countered, grinning fully under the cowl.

She laughed, unable to discredit his recollection, and turned her back to him, continuing to get dressed. "You must have come here for a reason, Dara," she prompted, ever one to get down to business.

"The party," he began.

Page turned to him with a devilish grin. "Isn't it a wonderful idea?"

"To the contrary," he murmured, his voice low and grave. "It is a terrible idea."

"Hm, and why is that?" She inquired, though it was clear from her tone that she did not truly care for an answer.

Dara's shoulders tightened in controlled anger. She had gotten far too comfortable being in charge, far too protective of her people. She did not understand the resource she was risking to save a paltry few survivors. She hadn't a plan in place, hadn't the knowledge of what she was getting in to. She was simply content to accept Reaver as a stupid tycoon. She was too ready to believe she knew everything. And she was all too unwilling to admit that she hadn't a clue.

"To begin with, you haven't a plan-"

"I don't need a plan," she stated simply. "I've a Hero on my side. Have you met her? Not half-bad for being Logan's little sister."

"A Hero guarantees you nothing," Dara pressed. "I've business at Reaver's mansion. It would not be difficult to extract your men while-"

"No." Page stated plainly, hand on her hip. "They're _my_ men and _my_ responsibility."

"So send your lackey to do it," Dara sneered, making a gesture toward himself.

"No. I will see to it personally. I got them in there, I'll get them out. Here, tighten this corset for me."

He grunted, but did as was requested, tugging the strings forcefully and not truly giving a damn whether the garment was comfortable or not. He needed her to listen. "If you insist on going, leave the Princess. I'll not let her die for your stupid pride."

"Pride?" she snarled, whirling on him. "How are my actions different than yours would be in my position? If your Wraiths were trapped in Reaver's mansion and subject to torture and the possibility of revealing treasonous information, would you not charge headlong in after them?"

"If my Wraiths were stupid enough to get caught, then they deserve whatever fate Reaver has in store for them," he answered levelly. "They're also disciplined enough to keep silent under torture."

"You're an assassin, Dara. I suppose I expect little else from you," Page muttered, tugging her dress on over her head. "Get out. I appreciate your concern, but I have things under control. The Princess and I will be perfectly fine."

Dara could only glower at her beneath his hood, fuming as she dabbled the make-up onto her face with a little too much care. This was stupid. She wanted a grand demonstration, a grand exhibition that the people of Bowerstone would gossip and chat about under their breath. The plan wasn't smart, but it would be remembered if all went without a hitch.

"How do I look?" Page inquired, twirling around in her ball-gown, showing ample cleavage and a stunning neck-line.

"I'd watch the number of chocolates you eat. The corset only does so much for you," he said sardonically and turned from her.

"What?" She demanded, whirling toward him as he jumped and caught hold of one of the cross-beams of pipes and electric lines that formed the rafters.

He tugged himself up and peered down at her. "You heard me," he said and left, slipping along the pipes and away from her. He made his way toward the entrance of the sewers, cautious to keep quiet and not alert anyone to his presence. Fleetingly, he saw the Princess bending over the map-table and gesturing between locations, communicating to Walter some tactical plan or another. The Veil had been kind enough to reveal the path the battle would take once little Keturah led the revolution to her brother's doorstep.

"Any luck?" inquired Crevan and Dara slid down to ground level.

"She wouldn't listen," he lamented rather bitterly.

Crevan, to Dara's surprise, let out a rather hearty laugh, his broad grin twisting his tattoo and making him look eerily like a snide fox. "Of course not! You've no value to her save that hog's intestine between your legs."

"Yes. My curse, I suppose, for lying with a women so repressed as she," he spat.

"Can't have been all bad," mused Crevan snidely. "It made your visits here much more enjoyable."

Dara's retort was interrupted by the arrival of Major Swift. "As fascinating as your adventures with the fairer sex are, General, I rather like the image of your order I've set up in my imagination."

The Wraiths possessed no formal ranks, much unlike the uniformed service of Albion. The title of 'General' had been bestowed upon Dara by Major Swift half as a jest and half seriousness. The poor man didn't know how to address people if they had no title. He was far too mannerly to ever attempt addressing someone by their first name alone.

"And what image is that?" Crevan inquired, standing to attention now that his old friend was present.

"I'd always imagined you lot to be monks, of sorts. Deadly monks who partook of no pleasures of the flesh," Swift replied, fussing with his rather impressive mustache.

Crevan and Dara both threw their heads back and guffawed at the concept. No pleasures of the flesh? Hardly. They were both men and both had desires that they fulfilled one way or another. Dara more so than Crevan. The leader of the Wraiths was really quite the charmer, if he was in the right state of mind. It had been long, hard years of denial that had helped in curb the voracious appetite.

"You also don't laugh," Swift defended his opinion sternly. "Crevan, old friend! Shall we be on our way?"

The healer nodded and glanced to Dara, his gaze suddenly becoming serious. The two had discussed the high probability that either Crevan, Swift, or both would be killed on this little expedition. Dara had equipped the older man with what knowledge he'd been able to glimpse from scrying. But even so far away from Aurora, the Darkness's voice haunted his mind and its claws tore at his eyes while he pressed through visions and glimpses of what will and what might be.

"Lead on, Swift," Crevan said, gesturing that the Major should take the lead. He drew up his cowl and hood and followed silently behind.

The entire venture was, with many thanks to Page, completely chaotic. Dara and his men chose to enact their plan hurriedly while the Page aided the Princess in getting dressed for the party. It was easy enough for the men to skulk into Reaver's mansion while the loudest parts of the festivities were occurring around them. Dara tried not to think of the ramifications of the Princess and Page arriving late to the party and seeming even more suspicious than they already did. Of course, his inability to concentrate was in no part aided by the added presence of Benjamin Finn. The Sight had warned him of the Captain's volatile behavior…particularly in regards to Major Swift's safety.

"By the Light!" Dara hissed as Ben once again stumbled over an object in the dark and loudly fell and grunted in the muck of the tunnel system. "You are about as subtle as a blunderbuss!"

"This isn't exactly my specialty, y'know," Ben muttered as they continued. "All this cloak and dagger sneaking about isn't really how I was taught to go at an enemy. Why don't you fight like real men and just confront Reaver head on? This whole 'secret assassin' bit's a load of bollocks."

"With four men and one idiot, I think our chances of confronting Reaver and surviving are slim to none," Midir laughed from behind Ben.

"Hardy-har-har," Ben retorted. "The Princess and Page are going at it alone." He sighed and added wistfully, "Pity I couldn't go with them, really."

"Their being alone is all the more reason for us to hurry and keep _quiet_," Dara snarled, continuing to press forward.

* * *

><p>Upon reaching the dungeons, the original plan was set into motion with Aindrias, Midir, and Lugh stationing checkpoints and removing any problematic guards who happened to trapeze their way. Ben was left on watch (though the task was truly redundant and unnecessary with the other men performing their duties – kept him out of trouble well enough, though) while Dara picked the lock to the holding cell of Neygine's tribe.<p>

Most of the women were asleep. Their clothing was tattered and filthy and their blades were bloody, no doubt from defending themselves, but overall they seemed none the worse for wear.

"Time to wake up, ladies," Dara murmured, shaking the nearest one gently by the shoulder.

Her face was covered with a mask similar to Neygine's and made her expression unreadable. He could not see her eyes as she stirred, but he was not surprised by her reaction: she snarled, hastily reaching for her knife and haphazardly slashing at him. Dara drew Tantalize and deftly blocked her attacks for as long as it took her to recognize him.

"_You!_" She hissed, her assault ceasing and successfully waking the others. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"Neygine sent me," he provided. It was all the explanation they needed. "My men have secured a path for a safe escape. Follow their lead and you will be on a boat to Aurora by nightfall."

"We are ten," the woman said, "but five or so have been taken by Reaver." She chuckled mirthlessly. "That father of yours is a cruel man, cur."

Dara did not react. "Go with the Wraiths. I will do what I can to secure the rest of them."

"I will not follow orders from one such as _you_," spat one of the women.

Dara glowered at her. "In your predicament, have you more feasible choice? It matters not to me whether you go or stay. You're welcome to be a part of Reaver's little games, if that proposition suits you better." He paused in his callous berating of the woman and glanced over her shoulder to the meeker members of the group. "Any takers to that end?"

It was a challenge to them. Each looked to the other through the lenses of her mask. None of the women spoke.

"Good!" he said, clapping his hands together jovially. "Now, then, out of the cell, down the hall, past the blond Captain, and out through the tunnels. Go!"

* * *

><p>"And now we arrive to the fun part!" Reaver declared grandly, swinging his arms in a wide, all-encompassing arch. This was simply far too delightful! The pretty little rebel leader and poked her masked head into his ball. Oh! This was such a wonderful addition to the party! Her barley tea-colored skin was perfectly complimented by the ball gown, the corset wonderfully accentuating her beauteous bosom. Her wanted posters truly did not do her justice. And she'd even brought a friend! Of course, the other woman was not nearly as voluptuous, well-endowed or proportioned (she was as tall as most of the men) as Page, but she would have the proper plumbing, no doubt. That was really all that mattered.<p>

"Enough of your games, Reaver!" Page bellowed up at him. Oh! He liked her spunk!

"Are you not enjoying yourself?" Reaver pouted.

"No!" She barked.

He tapped his cane on the ground, triggering the set switch beneath the balcony and causing the wheel the spin once more. The contraption clicked to a stop of the icon indicating that the Sand Furies were the next wave of creatures in the little midnight game of theirs. He was honestly surprised that they had gotten so far as this. He had been certain that the wave after wave of foes would be enough to stifle them. Of course, with Page's rough sword arm and her companion's sharp shooting, it had been quite an interesting spectacle. And he so enjoyed toying with Logan's foes before he disposed of them.

"Perhaps you'll enjoy this one more. Sand Furies! This will be your opportunity to act as a foreign dignitary for Albion, my dear Page."

He glanced to the grate on the other side of the pit as it clacked open and smirked down at the two women. They could move to the next area and entertain him, or they could stay. The creatures would find them regardless. He'd made sure to promise the Sand Furies their freedom if they slew the two women. Gullible, delightful creatures those Sand Furies were. His dealings with them before had been nothing but pleasant…they certainly were interesting bed partners. What with the lack of male Sand Furies, the poor things almost didn't know how to resist.

"Don't you know who this is?" Demanded Page. "This is Logan's sister! Princess Keturah!"

Reaver's eyes flashed at that. Logan's sister, eh? Perhaps Sparrow's blood had continued the Hero lineage in her. But, she hadn't used magic… He had indeed seen the red wisps of color that shone on her skin here and there, but had believed them to be tattoos or costume make-up. But now…could they be Will lines, perhaps? If she did indeed have magic, she possessed Hero's blood. If she possessed that, she might be capable of remedying his little longevity problem.

"Ah! Well, I'll see to it that the maiming is kept to a minimum, then," he nodded amiably. "Come now, move along! Next chamber please. Chop-chop!"

The women hissed among themselves for a while before Keturah snarled something and marched toward the opening. Reaver chuckled. Just like her brother, just like Sparrow: brazen, brutish, brave to the point of being stupid. But he could not help but be impressed. If she possessed Hero's blood, he would claim her as his own, addle her wits a bit, and return her to her brother once he'd satiated his own needs. If not, he could not very well justify laying a hand on her. She was of mediocre appearance, at best; far too tall and sparsely endowed with feminine assets for his taste.

Reaver moved into the next chamber and stood to watch the carnage. The princess had drawn her rifle and Page began to edge forward hesitantly with her sword drawn. From the shadows, he heard the clicks and hisses that the Furies used as their own language to direct and execute attacks. It was what had given them away in the sands of Aurora, what had led so many of them to be trapped. He had a good number of them…plenty to keep Page and the Princess distracted. With any luck, they'd coax some magic from the girl, if she had any to offer.

_Sparrow's daughter_, he mused, peering out assessing from his dark frock of hair. _She certainly carries herself better than her brother, faces impossible odds handily, and is ever the stickler for proper decisions. Surely she has Hero's blood. She must._

One of the Furies lunged with a screech, causing a trill of pleasure to course up Reaver's spine and tickle the base of his skull. Page parried, if only just, and threw the Sand Fury back with a grunt.

A ring of Furies advanced on the two women, forcing them back to back, the princess' rifle flickering from target to target while Page hissed under her breath, her arm taught with a prepared strike. The Auroran strangers hummed and clicked around the revolutionaries and Reaver's groin ached with the expectation of the gore that was to occur. These Sand Furies were quick, so quick as to be able to swat bullets away as though they were nothing more than an annoying fly. These women could not possibly hope to counter them…at least not after the third wave.

A gunshot rang through the pit, though it was not from the direction Reaver had expected. Indeed, the princess and Page peered around, searching for the sound of the shot. Then, suddenly, a blond, well-built man languidly strolled from the shadows the Sand Furies had emerged from, the butt of his rifle pressed against his shoulder and is aim at one of the closes of the creatures.

"Not too late for the party, am I?" He inquired.

"Ben-!" Page began to snarl.

Reaver interrupted. This was simply too charming! "Of course not, young man! I question your methods in entering the pit, but no matter! The lovely Sand Furies were about to be greeted by the princess and the lovely rebel leader. I'm sure a male presence would be most welcome!"

Ben strolled leisurely into the center of the pit and, to Reaver's utter amazement, none of the Furies attacked. They simply stood, taught, prepared to attack, but unmoving. Ben drew the cutlass from the scabbard on his back, his grin shining brightly in the half-light of the chamber. His relaxed form belied the circumstances and Reaver spiraled down further and further into confusion. The Sand Furies held their ring and did not attack. The princess, Page, and Ben did not move. He was growing bored…as were the Balverines he had dressed as nobles.

"As entertaining as this all has been," sneered Reaver, "The hour grows late and my guests grow tired and hungry. If you will not leave them carcasses to feed from, I shall allow them the pleasure of creating their own corpses."

It was the command they had been waiting for. Each of them had been so terribly restrained under the spell and in the nobles' clothing. The smell of blood all battle long had taunted them, and he had enjoyed their writhing. But the games were over and it was time to end this little charade. If he could have no fun with the Sand Furies, the Balverines would assure some blood and gore, at least. "The princess is to remain untouched," he breathed.


	12. The Execution

**Chapter 10**

_The Execution_

* * *

><p><strong><em>AN: Thanks again to all of you readers! I can't tell you how much it means to me to have support in writing this! Much appreciation to those of you who have reviewed, favorited, or added this story to your alerts_**. **_Again, don't forget the link to the gallery on photo bucket!_**

**_ This chapter is particularly short (relatively speaking). I've been having a bit of writer's block, so I cranked this out in a hurry to transition on to more exciting things. _**

**_Thanks again for all your support! Enjoy!_**

* * *

><p>Keturah's back was pressed against Ben's, both of their riffles flickering from target to target as the Sand Furies bolted toward them, escaping the large, slobbering Balverines that ripped from the skins and dresses of the nobles and pounced into Reaver's ridiculous ring of rendering. The fine hair on the back of her neck and arms prickled and her eyes darted from the masked forms of the Furies to the toothy, furred faces of the Balverines. Who were the enemies now?<p>

"Dara," Ben laughed, "Nice of you to join us!"

Keturah glanced quickly, a thrill of terror and anger scorching down her spine. Surely not. How could he have followed her here? What did he want from her?

True as the rising of the sun, the murky-robed assassin slipped from the shadows, his blade a thread of silver in the torchlight, just as it had been when he'd slaughtered Saker. "You're a bloody idiot, Benjamin Finn," he snarled, his voice deep and resonating, overpowering the snarls and growls of the encroaching Balverines.

"What can I say?" The captain replied with an easy shrug, the action, knocking against Keturah and rocking her slightly off balance. "I'm a sucker for a damsel in distress," he added with a wink at Page.

One of the Balverines charged at Dara from his left flank. Keturah whirled her rifle, shoving Ben out of the way and firing three shots – two to the chest and one to the head. The beast wailed and fell with a wet gurgle, earning her angry snarls from the others dancing around them. To his credit, Dara did not so much as flinch at her shots, though one had certainly flown past his ear. He simply nodded and gave her a two-fingered, cocksure salute. She could imagine him grinning snidely beneath that cowl, laughing at how easy her movements were to predict. He was positively infuriating. She'd half a mind to shoot him, now.

"If you lot could kindly stop bickering like children, it would be greatly appreciated!" Keturah spat at Ben and Dara.

Another Balverine lunged and, to Keturah's utter astonishment, one of the Sand Furies tugged a sort of cross-bow contraption from her hip and launched a bolt at the Balverine. The arrow caught the creature in the shoulder and Dara deftly leapt forward and past Keturah, thrusting his blade through the creature's neck. The beast coughed and gagged, howling in vain. Dara pressed his foot to its chest and shoved it from his blade, giving a casual flick and spattering the blood in an arc across the floor, mocking the other pack members.

The Balverines howled in anger at the slaughter of their kin and charged forward, bouncing and leaping, swinging huge, muscled arms and sharp, deadly claws. What occurred then was nothing short of a ballet. Ben and Keturah remained back to back in the center of the circle of chaos, each silently assigned to keep watch on their 180 degrees of slaughter. Page and Dara, the two melee fighters, dashed forward with four or five Sand Furies wailing and screeching war cries at their heels. While they weaved, dodged, and slashed at the beasts, Ben and Keturah kept watch for any Balverine bumptious enough to attempt a flanking attack. For what it was worth, the four humans and the Sand Furies worked well together.

Keturah was in the process of reloading her rifle when a particularly large Balverine snarled and hopped into the ring, bellowing its fury and blood lust. As she loaded the last of the bullets and snapped the muzzle back up and the butt of the gun against her shoulder, the Balverine ripped through a Sand Fury, tearing the strange creature quite literally in half and spraying inky blue-black blood into the air and gushing onto the floor. Keturah's eyes left the Balverine for a moment to watch in abject horror as the two halves of the corpse twitched and writhed, as though still fighting desperately for life. She did not realize the Balervine had turned its furred, snarling head toward her, did not recognize its intent until it was too late. The creature charged and grappled her to the ground, crushing the air from her lungs with a heavy, clawed paw and swatting her rifle from her grasp as though it were nothing more than an annoying fly.

"Princess!" She heard the alarmed cry from Ben somewhere above her, although she was too panicked by the Balverine's sharp teeth above her throat to pay much mind to his location.

"Keturah!" It was Page's yelp this time. "For Avo's sake, Ben, _do something!_"

But there was no need. Keturah took a deep breath, concentrating the ferocity of her heartbeat into her gauntlets, willing the blistering heat into her palms. She held the power as long as she could, felt the pressure bottling up on her insides, but kept her vice-like grip even as the Balverine clawed at her. Then, after what seemed an eternity, she let the dam burst and screamed with the pleasant agony of releasing the captured fire. The Balverine above her burst into flames and wailed, bolting away from the source of the eruption and howling in fury and pain. It flailed pathetically, charging blindly into walls and other Balverines in an attempt to extinguish the painful flames.

A strong grip found her hand and hauled her to her feet none too kindly. It did not surprise her, then, when she found herself looking into the shadows of Dara's hood.

"You're a bit of a muppet, aren't you?" The term was jovial, the tone was scathing.

"You're awful fond of calling others names, Dara," she replied civilly, pressing a hand flat on his chest and shoving him away. "Get back to fighting."

Dara laughed, but the sound carried no humor. "What fight?"

Keturah did not have time to sputter a response. From above them, Reaver let out a sharp whistle and the remaining, live Balverines leapt from the ring and returned to his side.

"Well, that was quite the bit of late-night entertainment!" He hollered down into the pit, his voice carrying genuine mirth. Coming from Reaver, the sound was utterly terrifying. To make matters worse, the grin on his lips and the twinkle in his eyes told Keturah one thing clearly: this was not over and what was to come would be much, much worse.

"Thank you all for coming! You've been great sports to my little games." Reaver tapped his cane on the ground and the gate leading back toward the mansion's entrance reappeared. "I'll leave you to your little revolution, then, Princess," he stated with a grand bow. Upon straightening, his grin warped and twisted into an even more wicked-looking creation. "Just remember me when you overthrow that wretch brother of yours."

"I thought I told you not to come, Ben!" Page seethed as she, Keturah, and the Captain limped from Reaver's elegant courtyard. Dara had retreated into the shadows with the Sand Furies. Keturah hadn't the will to inquire as to where he was going or why he'd appeared. Like it or not, he had helped.

"You weren't complaining when I shot the Balverine chewing your lovely heels," Ben retorted, his smile dimpling his cheeks, his eyes alight with wicked humor.

"Keturah and I had the situation completely under control," Page retorted.

"I beg to differ!" Keturah snapped, whirling on the revolutionary leader. "There was no control to speak of! You failed to see the trap Reaver had laid out perfectly. He didn't even need to try and trick you! And, stupid, stupid me, I followed you blindly, trusting that your spies had gathered enough intel to back up your crazed plan." Keturah pulled the party wig from her head in frustration and threw it at Page's feet. "You're a wonderful bluff, Page. And that's all you are."

"Oh, I'm _sorry_, Princess," sneered Page. "But like it or not, you need me."

"Of that I have no doubt!" Keturah stated, her voice returning to more reserved tone. Her tongue, however, was no duller. "But let it be clear that your abilities as a leader have come under some serious scrutiny. It is no longer me who needs your approval, Page. It is you who needs mine."

Page grunted. "You behave as though you know the people of Industrial, know their aches, and woes. I saw you in that palace, Highness. I saw you and your little man prancing about the gardens having tea and living in paradise while the rest of us worked as slaves under your brother's tyranny. Do not presume that you can simply take leadership from me based upon title alone."

"I make no claim on knowing the people," Keturah answered evenly. "You're right. I lived in ignorance in the palace. It has been blow after blow for me to live in reality these past months. I question your leadership abilities not because I feel entitled to your position, but because I know a better-suited candidate."

The revolutionary leader scoffed. "Who might that be?"

Keturah gestured to the Captain on her left. "Mr. Benjamin Finn. He's better looking and knows how to use what little of his brain he has left."

The Captain didn't say a word, amazingly enough. He simply stood, dumbfounded, and looked between the two women and they glowered at each other, each daring the other to back down first.

Page broke first. "You and Dara. Haughty, full of yourselves. You think you know so much."

Keturah's jaw tightened in anger. Page knew Dara? Why was she not surprised? It seemed as though everyone around her had contact with the hooded assassin and knew of his intentions except her. Again, she felt like a chess piece. Dara had known the fighting would stop in Reaver's little merry-go-round of torture. He was a controller in this game and it infuriated her.

Ben broke the silence. "Alright! Ordeal's over! Cat fight's over!" He pointed to each of the women and drew his fingers together, indicating that Page and Keturah should step closer to one another. "Now, kiss and make up." Then he added with a wag of his brows, "Don't be afraid to get some tongue in there."

"Shut up, Ben!" They both snarled.

* * *

><p>Dara had managed to get the surviving women onto a ship and bound for Aurora, if only just. Page had turned the entire endeavor into a complete and utter clusterfuck had he ever seen one. And the Princess! How could she be so brazenly stupid! Surely she knew how her father had died! Surely she knew of Reaver's role in his death! The wicked man had stolen Sparrow's essence and now was looking for another Hero to refill his longevity. Her use of magic may as well have been a brightly painted sign nailed to her chest announcing the manner of blood coursing through her veins. The vision he'd had in Aurora clawed at the edges of his eyes, but he refused to pay them any mind, refused to let the demons dance a merry jig on his consciousness. The vision was more likely than ever to happen now. But if all played out properly, the Princess would be far enough away from Reaver that no harm could be done…at least for a while.<p>

There were more pressing matters. He had to honor Crevan's sacrifice.

The strange, surreal feeling surrounded him as he stood in the crowd of onlookers in the castle courtyard. He'd been here once before, when he'd pulled past the Veil and glimpsed the future. He was only too sad that fate had deemed this particular vision be made reality. Knowledge of what was to come made him numb. People jostled about him, wanting to see the once-trusted Major Swift and the exotic-looking Auroran spy. He barely felt them, hardly notice the suffocating heat of so many bodies packed against one another. Coldness consumed him, as it did when he slipped into his Sight. He was prepared for what was to come…prepared for what he must do and what he must endure. He could not allow his selfish feelings to delay the plans. Many more would die if the paths were not properly aligned.

_Look at him, little Seer,_ sneered the Crawler in his mind. Even so far away, he could hear its voice. _Look at your beloved Crevan. Look how fragile he is!_

It was true. Crevan stood before the crowd, his Wraith's attire torn and bloodied, revealing an ugly wound at his shoulder and gore from countless lashings at Logan's hands. Dara's stomach twisted at the sight. It was one thing to witness such wounds, another to recognize them belonging to a trusted companion and close friend. Crevan's bone shone white through the wounds, his body so damaged that two guards had to hold him upright.

_You did this to him. Even for all your greatness, all your visions, all your Sights, you could not prevent this. He will join us, join the children, in the darkness. And you will follow. You are your father's spawn. His seed cannot create good. It can only pollute the earth. Writhe, little Seer. Your pain will end soon. You will be home with us, with the children._

Dara hissed in pain as the Creeper withdrew its mocking claws from his mind. His vision blurred marginally, but he managed to return his gaze to Crevan.

The older man gazed out at the crowd, his jaw taught with pain, but his eyes full of purpose. He knew he was to die, knew the reasoning behind it. But that did not make the ordeal any easier. His amber eyes caught Dara's and he offered a week grin, a final gesture of forgiveness and acceptance. Dara's shoulders tensed in pain, though knew it was nothing compared to what his friend now endured.

Logan was speaking, talking about traitors and treason. But Dara hardly heard him. He had said good-bye to his friend. Now his duties lead him elsewhere.

Into the crowd he slithered, the numbness and cold clinging to him like a woman's cloying perfume. But he was beyond the threshold for shivering, beyond the capacity for emotion. He moved now out of duty, out of need and fear of what the future would hold should he allow the second part of this vision to become truth.

True to form, the cloudy, murky day revealed Keturah and Benjamin Finn, shoving their way through the crowds, more toward the front. Logan continued to speak, but Dara kept his eyes on Ben Finn. The Captain was a good man and a good shot, but he'd a terrible temper when those he cared about were placed in jeopardy. That was Logan's goal. Make the protesters and revolutionaries angry. It made them stupid. And Ben had no shortage of foolishness.

"Swiftie!" came Ben's cry of alarm.

It was Dara's signal to move. He whispered through the crowd, on a path to intercept the young Captain's rhinoceros charge to the platform where Swift and Crevan were to be executed for "crimes" against Albion. He could not let him charge brazenly forward, could not let him put the Princess in danger. She was the keystone to this all. She was their hope against the Darkness, the Crawler, and the Children.

"You'll go no further, Captain," Dara murmured, drawing his blade in an easy movement and halting Ben's forward advance. The crowd was far too distracted with the spectacle to notice the paper-thin blade pressed against the man's throat.

Ben growled. "And you're going to stop me?" It was a challenge. Ordinarily, it would have flared Dara's temper. But the frigid chill pervading every inch of his insides prevented any sparks of anger or hostility.

"By any means necessary, yes," Dara replied smoothy.

"Then you'll have to kill me!" Bellowed Ben.

Dara flicked Tantalize up and drew a threatening line of blood across Ben's cheek. "Raise your voice again, and I'll be inclined to," Dara promised.

Ben's blue eyes searched for Dara's under the hood, naked fury and fire in their depths. But Dara did not flinch and did not budge. He simply held his blade poised at Ben's throat. The foolish soldier was ultimately inconsequential to the scheme of things. The Princess could find other suitors.

A slender hand gripped Ben's shoulder tightly. "Captain," the tone was authoritative, even as Keturah glanced hesitantly up toward Dara. "Please, stand down. Swift wouldn't want you dying for a foolish cause."

"This coward won't kill me. I'll shoot Logan myself!"

Keturah spoke for Dara. "He can kill you and he will. I've seen him do it. He's no one to be trifled with. Captain Finn, as your Princess, I order you to stand down."

The soldiers raised their guns at Swift and Crevan and pressed the triggers. The "traitor's" heads lolled with the force of the gunshot and their bodies dropped with a thud onto the platform. The spectators closest to the event wailed and screamed in horror and shock, as they'd been splashed with blood from the slaughter. Dara felt Ben tense ferociously, but the soldier did not bolt forward.

"Let's go, Princess," he snarled and whirled on his heel, dragging Keturah back toward Industrial.

Dara sheathed his blade, and looked back up to the platform, eyeing Crevan's body mournfully. "I will honor your death, my friend. May the Light guide you on your journey to peace. You deserve your rest."

* * *

><p>Walter had yet to arrive to discuss their plans beyond this point and Keturah was left to deal with a completely and utterly bewildered, rampaging, scared, saddened and morose Captain Benjamin Finn. The poor man stormed from one corner of the hide out to the other, half the time downing whatever alcohol he could find and the other half throwing tables upside down, smashing barrels, and firing rounds from his riffle into the firing dummies Page kept on hand for her recruits. He shouted and cursed Logan, cursed Dara, and cursed her. He spouted obscenities she could only assume he'd learned from his days in Bloodstone, oaths powerful enough to make the worshipers of the Scorm temple blush in shame.<p>

When he'd calmed down enough that he was panting and out of breath, Keturah moved to assess the damage. She was still too numb to attempt to digest the scene that had just assaulted her, too frightened and mortified at the deaths of Swift and Crevan and the presence of Dara. He'd let his own man be slaughtered at the fore of a crowd like some mangy dog! He'd very nearly killed Ben! And Swift! Crevan! How many more would die for this revolution? How many more would die because of her?

"Let me clean the wound," she offered gently, approaching Ben as she would a wounded, feral animal.

Ben was breathing heavily, slumped over a still-upright wooden table on a yet-undamaged wooden chair. She was not frightened of his rampage. She'd be doing something similar if it were appropriate. But she needed to remain strong and vigilant, provide a good example for the people she lead. There had been casualties. There would be more. There were a certain number of acceptable losses in battle and she prayed to Avo that Swift and Crevan were among that percentage of acceptable sacrificeds. But it did not lessen the blow any.

"And _you!_" He seethed. "The Princess! So calm and so bloody reserved! Tell me, highness, does the same, demented thread run in you as it does in your brother? Do you _enjoy_ watching people die in your name and doing nothing to stop it?"

"I will not deign that with an answer, Captain," she said, kneeling before him and reaching out slowly to tilt his head and examine the wound.

But he wouldn't have her touching him. He snatched her hand and squeezed it with such savage roughness that the bones of her hand rubbed together and cracked. "Don't talk in circles around me, Princess. Swift was like my bloody father! He was the only goddamn family I had! And you just sat and _watched_ as he was shot down in front of those people. And when I tried to do something, you stopped me. You and that bloody assassin!"

Keturah was struggling to remain calm. She knew he spoke from anger and heartbreak, but that did not ease the sting of his words. "What would you have done, Ben? Charged forward? Gotten yourself killed?"

He growled, "Better than doing nothing. Like you. Like Dara. Like everyone in that damned crowd!" He released his harsh grip on her hand and tossed it away roughly. "You're supposed to be our new leader, you're supposed to protect us! Not let us die while you cower and hide!"

That did it. "What would you have me do, Ben?" She demanded, raising her voice and thrusting her face into his, butting her forehead against his skull. "Charge forward and reveal myself! Logan would have me locked in the dungeon! Then where would your revolution be? Swift would still be dead and his death would mean nothing!"

She huffed and backed away, if only just to grip his jaw and jerk his head to the side so she could pour some of Crevan's amber healing poultice over the wound. He hissed as the liquid hit the tender flesh, but relaxed as the pain ebbed and healing came.

"Do not make the mistake of thinking that you are the only one who lost someone dear to you," she stated, firmly, capping the bottle and shoving it roughly into his large hand. "Use that for pain," she instructed him and stood and marched away to be alone with her thoughts.

Her rant seemed to have silenced the Captain, and she went and hid among sacks of flour that were stored in the furthest rooms, away from the stench of human waste. It was there that she curled in on herself and sobbed. She wept for her uselessness, the heavy-handed blow that Crevan and Swift's loss had dealt, Ben's pain at loosing someone he cared for so much, Dara's callous intervention, and the hopelessness of it all. Logan had descended so far into madness, so far into the realm of darkness that she did not think he'd ever be able to return. He'd so cold-bloodedly slaughtered the most loyal of his guards on a whim, a trumped-up charge of treason. And Ben was right. All she did was hid and let others die for her. She was no leader. She was a mouse. She was no Hero, she was simply a frightened little girl who hadn't even grown into her own feet, yet. How could she lead a revolution? Elliot, Phillip, Crevan, Swift, Ben. She'd failed them all.

* * *

><p>Keturah had sobbed herself back into a sane state of affairs by the time Walter returned with news of their next tactical move. Ben was unconscious, laying across the table, empty bottles of varying types of alcohol strewn about the floor, making the scene look very much like a battle of booze had taken place. Page and her men had disappeared, searching for something, anything, that might hint at Logan's next course of action.<p>

Walter's presence she'd been expecting. What surprised her, however, was that he was accompanied by two men dressed in garb similar to Dara and Crevan. She knew better than to flinch and was too tired to attempt any sort of protest at their presence. For now, she was content enough to be a chess piece. Let another handle the trials of leadership for a little while. She'd take up the reigns shortly.

"This is Midir and Lugh, part of Crevan's band," Walter explained curtly. "Swift's news was short and curt as ever: you'll find allies in Aurora. So that's where we're heading. We need to need tonight. Page says that Logan's guards are combing the streets of Industrial, intend on finding and killing any remnants of the old guard." He glanced down to Ben. "Although I think the drink may have beaten him to it." Walter walked over toward the unconscious Captain and tipped the man's body from his seat, watching mirthlessly as Ben flopped to the floor and groaned into awareness.

"What in bloody blazes-"

"Shut it Ben. You'd best be ready to sail on the 'morrow."

Ben looked bleary-eyed between Walter, Midir, Lugh, and Keturah. "Why?"

"We've a revolution to fight," Keturah answered, managing to find some scrap of willpower again. "And this time, we bring the fight to Logan."


	13. Darkness Incarnate

**Chapter Eleven**

_Darkness Incarnate_

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN: Many thanks to those of you who have added this story to your favorites and alerts list and to those of you who have reviewed. I greatly appreciate the continued support and interest in this tale as I continue to spin it. I hope you continue to enjoy the newest installations. Thank you very much!**_

* * *

><p>Keturah had never been on a ship her entire life and it was not an endeavor she would soon be eager to repeat. The churning of the sea seemed to mock her, tossing her weak body to and fro in the hull of the ship, laughing with hissing waves against the wooden sides. Her head throbbed at the alien environment and the dull, pulsing aches became a sharp, shooting pain the few times she dared ventured up on the deck and out into the sunlight. The smell of the sea did nothing to comfort her and she was beyond the point of attempting to stomach the sights and the smells that accompanied a voyage across the sea. She had a crew of capable hands and she was perfectly content to let them handle the situation. They allowed her the leisure of cowering in the bowels of the ship and nursing her wounds and theirs from time to time.<p>

Their journey to the ship had been far from peaceful. Walter, with the help of Page and Ben, laid an escape route through Industrial, weaving and dodging through Logan's elite guards. Precious little good it did them, though. The guards could only be avoided so long before Keturah and Ben encountered the bulk of them surrounding the harbor. Logan, unfortunately, had had the presence of mind to think tactically about Keturah's movements and Walter's strategies. He knew that after the death of Major Swift, Sir Walter Beck would have limited places to run and hide. It would only be a matter of time until they were flushed from their hiding places and made an escape from Industrial by boat.

Accompanied with the heavy loss of two of her dear friends and allies, Swift and Crevan, the battle had torn heavily at Keturah. She and Ben had been partnered while Walter, Midir, and Lugh went about securing passage from the city. Ben was to be her bodyguard and for that she was grateful. His skill with a sword far exceeded hers. She did well enough picking off a few of the soldiers from a distance, but any sort of close-combat tactics were taken on by the young Captain. Ben, for his own part, remained remarkably collected and adept at swordplay despite his partially-drunken state and the alarming blow Swift's death had had upon him. If nothing else, the slaughtering of Logan's guard did well to ease his temper and was quite cathartic. It was not vengeance against her brother, but it was revenge against the King's lackeys. One did not win at chess by ignoring knights, bishops, and pawns and charging brashly forward, after all.

Now, Keturah lay on the sparse cot below deck with her head in her hands, trying to massage the reprehensible headache from her skull. Lugh and Midir hollered orders at one another and barked commands at Walter above her. The poor old man had never sailed a day in his life and the Aurorans were hard-pressed to teach him. But, Avo bless him, Walter was still sharp. He learned quickly and performed well when given a challenge. She understood why he'd been such a vital asset to her father.

Footsteps sounded from the wooden stairs and Keturah hurriedly pushed herself up and poised on the edge of the cot in the most lady-like fashion she could manage. Though her clothes were torn, her body bruised, and her lip split, she could still exude the essence of royalty. Casualties would happen and she would mourn each of them individually. She could not allow others to see how terribly the losses had wounded her. She would remain strong.

"Captain Finn," she greeted Ben as his blond hair caught the light creeping in through the porthole.

"Princess," he replied in return, his easy grin returned to his face. It had been days since she'd last seen it on his countenance. She much preferred him in the role of the smiling loon than the dour pessimist.

"What can I do for you?" she inquired.

"Came to get my wounds checked," he answered easily. He raised a hand to his left shoulder and made a great show of rotating it with a modest amount of trepidation. "It's been a few days now. I don't want infection spreading an' all that."

It was a pretense and she knew it. Ben had been wounded getting her to the ship and she'd promptly given him medical attention thereafter. He was hardly a man to complain of minor pain – he'd withstood the removal of a bullet, after all.

"Of course," she moved from the cot and gestured for him to seat himself. "Let's take a look, shall we?"

Ben obediently sat and removed the stained blouse of his soldier's uniform. Keturah bent and assessed his wounds: graze from a bullet here, wood from an exploded barrel, there, and various bites from a lucky blade strikes. Overall, they were hardly serious wounds and few had required stitches.

"You're in fine form, Captain," she pronounced, but stepped over to her pack of supplies nonetheless, working to keep herself from wobbling with the disorienting movement of the boat.

"Are you flirting with me, Princess?" Ben inquired with a grin. She felt his eyes on her as she bent to retrieve a glowing red flask – her own modification to Crevan's amber healing liquid.

"I can neither confirm nor deny that, Captain," she replied with a wink, eager for humor after hours of waiting for the voyage to end.

He chuckled, but the sound faded and he cleared his throat awkwardly. "Princess…I-I wanted to apologize for my behavior after the execution. I was completely out of line."

"Yes, you were," she agreed. "But your behavior was understandable. I'd have acted similarly had like events transpired with Walter." Swift had been something of a father to Ben. She'd seen it in the way the two behaved with one another. Walter had become nothing short of a father to her after Sparrow had abandoned his children.

Ben laughed. "I doubt that. You're always calm, collected, and composed. That's why you're a good leader."

The words cut deeply, but she was in no position to refute them. "I do what I can," she replied simply, continuing to dabble the glowing red liquid onto his wounds and watching the flesh pale with loss of inflammation and begin to become less swollen and more scar-like.

He sighed. "There's really no need to be so formal, is there Princess?" He chuckled lightly. "After all, you've seen me down to my skivvies."

The gesture was kind, and she was reminded of when she'd danced with him in Brightwall. He'd offered to comfort her then, too, and she'd turned away. Now he'd fought alongside her, been wounded protecting her, followed her orders when she'd given them. He'd proven himself a valuable ally and was attempting to be a good friend. But she could not do this. She would maintain distance.

"Be that as it may, Captain," she stated, "I am your healer and your Princess."

He was not put off. "Shame, that. Even after I watched you get drunk off your arse in the pub?"

Ah yes. When she'd taken him to get him that drink she owed him after Mourningwood. "As I recall, Captain, it was _you _who was completely intoxicated and _you_ who started a drunken bar fight with one of Logan's guards. The only time I was ever on _my_ arse was when I keeled over laughing at you knocking his teeth out with all sorts of creative obscenities," she informed him frankly with a grin.

"Ah, now there's what I wanted," he said with a grin.

"Beg your pardon?"

"Midir and Lugh bet me that I couldn't get you to smile," he informed her proudly. "Come up on deck with me so I can collect my winnings."

Keturah laughed and gave him a solid punch to the shoulder. "Son of a bitch."

* * *

><p>"Keturah!"<p>

She bolted upright in the cot, greeted by Midir – a man shorter than most women she knew – hauling her to her feet and placing her firmly on the ground. "King Logan's ship 'as routed us and their opening up the firing cannons! We need you up on deck."

Keturah looked down at him blankly, trying to order her thoughts. "Midir…" she started. "This is a merchant's vessel. There are no cannons."

"Aye, Princess," Midir replied, his tone almost mocking. "That's why we need you above deck. I 'ope you know 'ow to swim."

* * *

><p>Dara replaced the file in its compartment and pulled his hair down over the bony stumps of his skull. The exchange with Neygine had once again brought him too close to comfort to the Crawler's cavern. The Darkness was growing stronger. It was no longer just an ill feeling in his stomach or the tingle of spiders crawling along his skin when he ventured too close to the entrance of the shrine. The voice was stronger than ever in his mind, beckoning him to return to his place among the Children. The pain that accompanied it was no longer a simple headache – there was a very physical presence to it now, as though shards of ice now flowed through his veins, the sharp, jagged, cold edges tearing into him. It would not be long before the call became unbearable, before he could no longer resist. The Crawler had learned that appealing to his sense of fear had no effect – so it settled for driving him mad, warping reality with visions from beyond the Veil until he did not know truth from delusion. It would not be long before he was a liability rather than an asset to Kalin.<p>

Kalin clutched his shoulder as he was leaving. "Where are you going, Dara?"

"Not far," he answered. He needed to clear his head. Teresa had taught him techniques to keep his visions true, to keep the Darkness and the Crawler from his mind. Those meditations and prayers were long overdue.

"The Darkness," Kalin pressed. "It's coming closer, isn't it? Has Neygine kept her word?"

"It will be done," he breathed. "Tonight, she will enact the ritual."

Kalin pursed her lips, her lovely brown eyes pressing and pleading with him silently. "And the Hero, Dara?"

"She is on a ship now," he replied. "Please, sister. Leave me to myself. I need to gather my strength. The journey had been harrowing."

Kalin's gaze turned sympathetic and tearful. "I am sorry for Crevan's loss, Dara. I know what he meant to you."

The gesture pained him. She was stronger than he could ever possibly hope to be. "You're apologizing to me?" he demanded with a hiss.

Kalin did not step back. His temper did not phase her. She simply reached out a hand to attempt to comfort him, her tears dangerously close to spilling. He knew he should still his tongue, keep his furious thoughts to himself until he had time to strangle them himself. They were not Kalin's burden. She had enough to contend with.

His nostrils flared and he exhaled slowly, attempting to gain some composure. "I should be apologizing to you, sister," he continued, more gently, pulling her to him and cradling her head against his chest. "Crevan was your husband and it was by engaging in my endeavor that killed him." And Dara had sent him, along with Major Swift, to be executed in the name of bringing a Hero to Aurora, praying that her light would be enough to extinguish the Darkness.

Kalin's tears came. "He was to be a father, Dara," she whimpered against his chest, clinging to him, half collapsing. She hadn't the strength to carry the weight anymore.

Dara held her all the more tightly, his heart shattering at the news. Kalin…poor, poor Kalin. And he could do nothing. He could simply hold her, remain standing as Crevan was buried in a shallow ditch, stand as a reminder of what her husband did for Aurora, the work he labored through, the bravery he showed in death. Dara vowed that Crevan's son (he knew the man would breed sons) would know his father's strength and resolve.

"Dara…please tell me he was not tortured. Please tell me he felt no pain," she pleaded through her sobs.

He stroked her head, running a thumb over the tattoos and paint on her skull. "A shot to the head," he said truthfully. "He felt no pain." This lie he could tell to his sister. He would not tell her of the terrible wounds, the lashes running deep enough to show bone, the liters of blood that had flowed from the insults in his skin and muscle.

She continued to weep and he kept his embrace. He owed her this much. His own troubles could wait.

* * *

><p>Dara sat cross-legged, naked under the stern current of the waterfall. The oasis was not far outside of the city and the water within flowed deep enough underground that wells could be dug to tap into its branching, life-giving arms. The waterfall was lovely, though hardly impressive with its height. The foliage around it was green with life and seemed out of place with the macabre events that had begun draining the color from Dara's sight.<p>

He let out a deep breath and closed his eyes, concentrating on the rush of the water and rhythm of it against his skin. The weight of it massaged his sore muscles, coaxing him to relax and breath. The pleasant warmth eased the soreness of tight muscles and aided him in his thoughts. He always thought more clearly here.

The losses were done and over with. He had said good-bye to Crevan and to Swift, committing them to memory and to his heart. Breath in…hold…breathe out. The Princess would be arriving shortly and with her would be Walter and Benjamin Finn. In…hold…out. The young man would be the new leader of the Albion Royal Army and he would be a fine one, at that. In…hold…out. Walter would double his efforts to claim the throne in the name of Princess Keturah and overthrow Logan's tyranny. In…hold…out. Jammy would step up to fill Crevan's place as Aurora's healer, ironic though that was. In…hold…out. The cycle turned and returned. In…hold…out. Keturah would claim the throne, make a fine queen. In…hold…out. She would ensure Albion received the touch of a proper monarch and her people satisfied. In…hold…out. The Queen would take a suitor – who better than a General of her army? In…hold…out. They would make a fine couple and breed handsome children.

"You're sure about that last bit?"

Dara opened his eyes. Even though she was a blurred shape through the water, he could recognize her voice: wise, omniscient, kind and stern.

"Hello, Teresa."

He pulled himself from the rocky ledge beneath the rushing falls and slipped into the water, swimming to ledge she perched upon.

"You've grown into a man, Dara," she remarked. He thought he almost heard a note of pride in her voice.

"I should hope so. You disappeared when I was fifteen."

"Sixteen," she corrected him. "I had not realized so many years had passed."

Dara grunted in response. Teresa was used to his manners of speech. He did not have to embellish much for her. "Ten, to be precise. Where were you all that time?"

"Watching over my Sparrow's offspring," she replied. "The Princess is a strong woman. You've done well marrying your power to hers, little Seer."

That had not been what he was expecting. "No scolding?" He inquired, genuinely shocked as he dressed. "No, 'You should be watching Page more closely' or, 'Keep searching for paths, Dara, there are always alternatives'?"

Teresa offered a ghost of a smile. "I could not ask you to do better than what you did. The Princess is bound for Aurora. You've done well at pushing and nudging."

Dara was stunned into silence and simply focused on binding the leather jerkin around his chest.

"I am glad you remembered the reflection technique I taught you. I was worried for a moment."

He chuckled mirthlessly, "You'd have put me down like a mad dog."

Teresa did not miss a beat, "You'll need your strength for what is to come."

Teresa was never subtle about her warnings. "What do you mean?"

She gestured for him to peer out of the grotto and toward the shore of Aurora, down the hill from where he stood. He could clearly see over the rooftops of the fragile structures and saw a crowd of the citizens gathering on the shore. Off in the distance, smoke born from an oil fire belched blackness into the sky.

"Shipwreck," he breathed, suddenly recalling a previous image, one of the Princess on the beach with a dog, followed by the nightmarish sight of her rape by the Crawler and the Darkness. "They didn't land on the beach. They landed in the mouth of the Crawler's cavern…"

Teresa nodded solemnly. "Best get going, little Seer. You and I both know Walter will not last long."

* * *

><p>Keturah had gooseflesh raised all along her arms. First the mostly-rotted corpses and skeletons strewn about that circular-like altar, than the descent down into these darkened caves, and now Walter spewing gibberish from a scribbled notebook to open magical barriers…nothing was right. This went beyond the wrongness she felt when she was being tugged on by the assassin, beyond the wrongness she felt when sentencing Elliot to death. This was something perverse and evil. Something they should avoid. It was stupid to continue going forward, but there was no way out. The magical seals had closed behind them and no amount of muttering incantations would open them again.<p>

"Ever get the feeling we're being toyed with?" Walter inquired, his grip white-knuckled on the torch.

"_All_ the time," Keturah responded.

"Well…let's just be careful and get through this place as quickly as we can," muttered Walter, stepping forward with great trepidation

Keturah followed Walter, half-limping from where she'd been jostled and battered by the splintering, sinking ship. She'd read in Sparrow's book about Hero healing and was certainly glad that it continued to work. Her supply of health potions had disappeared in the wreckage, though. She had precious little to offer Walter for the large gash across his arm.

"What do you think this place is?" He inquired. He was uneasy, she could tell. She'd never known the man to be fearful of anything. Now he appeared haunted and strained in the twists and turns of the caves and halls.

"Perhaps a temple of some sort?" replied Keturah, talking simply for the sake of making some noise and preventing Walter from just musing to himself.

The pair did not need to wander far before her feeling of wrongness manifested itself. Ripples of maleficent laughter bubbled through the chamber they occupied. The sound started her heart and every bit of her body screamed at her to run and be rid of this place. But she did not. She would not abandon Walter. Whatever was to come, they would face it together.

"_The light you bring will die!_" Mocked the voice.

Walter spun around frantically, searching for the source of the voices. The light from his torch flickered frailly. "Who's there?" He demanded, though the quiver in his voice belied his confidence.

"_The light inside you will die!_" It continued, heedless of his demands.

"Show yourself!" Walter bellowed.

"_All that you are will die!_" The voice cried in return to Walter's command.

Beyond the halo of light cast by Walters torch, hundreds of pairs of glowing eyes peered at her, blinking and malicious looking. She could not see their faces, could not see any features to speak of. They were bodiless, faceless entities of darkness.

"Oh bollocks…this isn't good."

The nameless voices laughter echoed around the cavern eerily. "_The Children are here to play._"

A few pairs of eyes descended from the cavern's ceiling and hovered near the ground. Then, suddenly, into the pool of light appeared the bodies of shadow men. Hissing and seeming to cackle with the disembodied voice in the cave, the Children, as the voice called them, crept forward, their backs half-hunched and showing pointed, sickly-looking bat-like wings protruding from their shoulders. Their fingers tapered into claws and each of them clung to a sword made of flickering darkness.

"Wh-what are they?" Walter stuttered, backing away from the shadow-imps.

Keturah delved within her for the flames and proceeded to hurt bolts of fire at the creatures. Darkness was expelled by light…shadows would disappear when illuminated with fire, then. Her theory seemed to work well enough. The creatures wailed and dissipated with each nodule of flame that collided with their chests, head, and groins. It was oddly satisfying to see them fall with little fight. After enduring Reaver's circle of torture and a shipwreck, Keturah hardly possessed the strength to fight any particularly strong enemies. Of course, she could only savor the small victory for so long. These Children were merely pawns. The voice was their master. It was her true concern.

"_The tissue tears…the tears _burn_. They burn from the loss of light,_" taunted the voice, reverberating around the room and seeming to cheer on the children.

"Shut up!" Walter bellowed.

Keturah continued to hold the shadow-imps back with a series of Will attacks and skill flurries. The sense of wrongness was growing more urgent, more demanding of her attention. Walter was panicking, his composure lost in such a manner that she'd never before seen. Walter had seemed like a rock as a knight advisor to her father, impregnable, stoic, and strong. But in this cave with this strange voice, he seemed like little more than a whimpering child lost in a nightmare.

"_You are tainted_," it mocked. "_The stain will never wash out. The sun will never shine upon you again_."

Keturah held her breath and shunted the flow of Will to her gauntlets. The Children drew closer and closer, their wicked, glowing eyes peering at her contemptuously. _Closer_…she breathed. _Closer_…. The creatures were finally within the radius of her spell and she released her breath and allowed the Will the gush out and away from her in fiery, rippling rings. Any of the children that had remained in that particular cavern had either disappeared in the fire, or had vanished to elsewhere in the cave.

Keturah, breathing heavily with her expended effort, went forward and gripped Walter's wrist firmly. "Come on. Hold it together." It was an order, rather than comforting words. Walter was a soldier. Even in so terrified of a state, he would respond better to blind orders than heart-felt musings and reflections. They would have time for such things later. For now, she needed to get him and herself out of the caves.

Walter shook his head. "It's alright. I'm alright. We just need to keep walking and we'll all be alright." He blabbered, more to himself than to her. He glanced to her sheepishly and nodded forward. "Let's go."

The proceeded to wind their way through the dark mass of caverns, Walter's torch being their only source of light. It did well enough to guide them, but it did not lessen the sensation of spiders crawling along her skin or the utter feeling of dread. She and Walter were not the first ones to trapeze through here. The men up in the circle and the book… The body and clothing had rotten away, as though some malicious creature had believed everything but the bones to be a satisfying meal. But the insignia on the leather-bound journal…it looked much like the royal seal of Albion, of her father, Sparrow.

"Damn this book and whoever wrote it, the bastards!" Seethed Walter. "Why didn't they tell us what was down here? 'Darkness Incarnate'! Like we're supposed to know what that means!"

"Generally when I see a roomful of corpses that decayed in peculiar manner, magic seals and doors, a book of passwords and witchcraft, and warnings of _any sort_, those are enough hints for me to remain well away from the hell-hole," said a voice, echoing from the cave somewhere before them.

"Who's there? You'd best show yourself this time!" Walter bellowed, sounding a bit surer of himsef.

Keturah recognized the voice and was not entirely sure whether she was relieved or more panicked by its sound. "Walter, it's Dara," she hissed. "Lower your gun."

True to form, Dara stepped into the light of the torch, his sword at his hip and his hood and cowl drawn. His murky garments hung from his tall frame, making him look eerily like the Children that had previously attacked them. "So glad you remembered me, Princess." He said cheerily. "I'd hate for your trusty guard dog to run me through."

"Why are you here?" Keturah demanded before Walter could.

Dara placed a hand on his chest in a supplicating gesture, though the words that trickled from his mouth hardly matched such a motion. "I had thought you might need a guide through these caverns. But, if you think you'll fare well enough on your own, I suppose I can be on my way." With that, he turned on his heel and prepared to walk back into the shadows he'd originated from.

"Wait!" Walter cried desperately. "There's a monster in here. It attacked us earlier, spawned imps from the very shadows. Please! You must show us a way out."

"Ah, you've met the Children, I see," Dara said, returning to the halo of light. His tone was no longer biting and sarcastic. The sound changed, became kinder and light, promising hope and an end to the maze of darkness. "I cannot guarantee against another attack, Sir Beck and Princess."

"But you know the way out, yes?" Keturah pressed, not eager to waste time in this macabre environment. Again, the promise in his voice unnerved her, made her skeptical of him and the sort of creature he was.

"Yes, your highness," Dara replied with an over-dramatic bow. The harsh tone had returned. "Now, if you'll kindly subject yourself to following an Auroran assassin, it would be my pleasure to show you to safety."

Dara turned on his heel and gestured for Walter and Keturah to follow. Left with little other choice, the two meandered after the tall man. He stayed ahead of the halo, only his heels being caught in the torchlight, and seemed not to need Walter's help in spotting the correct path. He lead them a fair distance, all the while the sounds of skittering creatures surrounded them. Keturah's could not suppress the shivers that cascaded down her back, begging her to flee for her life from this wretched place.

"_The prodigal son returns!_" the voice called, returning and jarring the group.

Dara drew his blade hastily, but made no move to attack or answer.

"_And how lovely, you've made friends with your broken little toys! I give you the honor of tearing their sinews and watching as they bleed light. Go on, little Seer._"

Dara did not move and Keturah was suddenly not at all relieved that it had been he who had come to their rescue.

"More of those things!" Screamed Walter.

Indeed, the glowing eyes of the Children landed before them. Keturah, content with putting a perfectly good strategy to use once more, employed her Will and her gauntlets, though the tax on her strength was burdensome. She hadn't had to use them for a long while and her endurance had certainly depleated. She did not draw her riffle or pistol, for she'd equipped both now, as the fire did a good enough job and she hadn't the time to holster, fire, and re-holster the weapon while she was wielding the Will. And while Keturah hurled the blazing shards of magic toward the Children, Dara whirled in and amongst them like a shadows, cutting each down in a single, well-aimed stroke of his needle-like blade and moving among and between the corpses like a wraith in the dark fog of a graveyard.

Throughout the entire fight, the voice continued its taunts. "_We are coming. We will devour your Kingdom. There will be only darkness. The Children command it!_"

"Don't listen to him!" bellowed Dara over the unknown voice. "He toys with you! Don't listen!"

"_Close your eyes!_" Roared the voice over Dara. "_Those holes of light offend us!_"

The voice was maddening, as though it were clawing at her very skull, seeking entrance and access to her thoughts. She'd have none of it. But what Dara had told them was impossible. How could they not listen of there was nothing else to hear save their own panicked breathing?

The light from the torch suddenly flickered and Keturah looked away to see Walter waving desperately at a creature that had appeared before him, brandishing the torch as though it were a sword of the sharpest, strongest steel. The thing was something from one of Keturah's worst nightmares – it had the eyes of an insect, glassy and all-black, with carapaces forming its body that were somewhere between human bones and the exoskeletons of bugs. It appeared thin and malnourished, like a long-forgotten corpse, and everything about it warned of wickedness and death.

"_The Children's touch is so cold…_" said the creature, extending a sickly-thin hand invitingly toward Walter. "_See for the last time. Death brings the gift of blindness._"

"Quiet!" Walter snarled and, with all his might, cast the torch into the creature's flesh. The bit of fire met its mark and melted into the thing's chest. It writhed and screeched, curling in on itself and clawing at its chest to extinguish the flame. It then expelled the most unholy sound Keturah had ever heard and vanished in a cloud of hovering black smoke.

The children Dara and Keturah had been fighting disappeared and the two were left to stare at Walter in absolute shock.

"It's gone, the bastard's dead and gone," Walter breathed triumphantly.

Suddenly, a blood-curdling cry burst from Dara and Keturah hurriedly readied her rifle, pressed the butt into her shoulder, and positioned herself to take stance. What she saw, however, froze every muscle in her body with abject horror. The creature that had taunted Walted had appeared behind Dara and, somehow, had shoved its warped hand through his core and was proceeding to wriggle its way through his chest. The creature cackled as it pulled through, relishing the pain it was causing. Keturah saw no blood, no physical wounds inflicted, but based upon the initial cry, and the strangled yelps that gurgled from his throat she could only imagine what sort of agony Dara was enduring.

The creature tugged free of Dara's chest and stood before the assassin, chortling. Dara's knees, no longer able to support him, went out and he tumbled, prostrate, before the creature. Then the monster, with a bony hand, lifted Dara by the back of his hood. The assassin looked like a bruised, battered puppy fit for drowning in the creature's grip. Keturah thought him to be dead.

The creature glanced to Walter and Keturah and let out more ripples of wicked laughter before it tore Dara's coverings from his head and tossed him carelessly over the meters of distance separating him from the others. "_Play nicely, little Seer. Your toys get taken away if you don't. The Children will ensure it._" With sharp, biting laughter, it disappeared once more.

Walter was the first to break from the stupor the monster had cast over them and rushed to Dara. Keturah was quick to follow though she truly did not know what she would do once she arrived. How did one cure injuries that did not exist? Ease pain when there was no wound or physical manifestation to trace it to?

The assassin lay on his belly, his arms and legs twisted, looking very much as though someone had haphazardly flung a ragdoll to the ground. There was no movement save for the shallow, careful breaths that filled his chest. Hesitantly, Keturah rolled him onto his back to try and ease his breathing. It was difficult to maneuver the dead weight and Walter had to help her. She straightened Dara's head so that his airway was clear and allowed him to breathe and moved to brush the hair from his eyes. The sight that met her made her shrink in shock. Walter had a similar reaction.

"It's Reaver!" He bellowed angrily. "That bastard's been tricking us all along, hasn't he? He's been in the damn headquarters with Swift and Crevan. No wonder those two were brought up for treason so quickly-"

"It's not Reaver," Keturah murmured, still in dumb awe. No, it was not Reaver, though the similarities between the two were uncanny. No…this was a face she'd seen before, almost a year ago. She could not have dreamed that it would follow her so far. "He was in the mercenary camp when I went there to convince Saker to leave the Dwellers in peace." It was Will. Even without his hair bound in a cloth, she recognized the spotted tattoos traveling along his neck, the thick, angled brows, and the sharp, pronounced jaw line. The only thing that would make the match more perfect would be for her to see his eyes.

"Is he to be trusted?" Pressed Walter.

Keturah struggled to find her confidence. "I-I cannot say, Walter," she finally admitted.

After what seemed like ages, Dara jerked and arched back, gasping sharply for air and panting heavily afterward. He glanced around him in a panic, searching for answers to his current predicament, sharp gaze intent and assessing his surroundings and memories simultaneously. Then his eyes found Keturah and she saw what she'd known to be true: bright blue, almost colorless. The eyes of a Seer.

"What happened?" she felt herself compelled to ask.

"I wish I could say," he said with a grunt, shouldering past Keturah and Walter to stand. Both the knight and the princess stood ready to help him support himself, but he needed no such aid. Of course, the moment he righted himself, he doubled over with a groan and retched up a steady stream of inky-blue liquid.

"You alright, boy?" Walter asked hesitantly, unsure of whether or not to trust the man now that his face had been revealed.

Keturah was also disturbed. Will had shot at her and warned the others of her approach. How could she trust him? He'd hidden his identity for so long and why? He was a wicked little pawn-master and enjoyed toying with people. She'd seen it when he mocked Ben at Swift's execution, knew that he was capable of brutal slaughter, as he'd done with Saker. But she also remembered his kindness to her, how he' sat beside her, close, but not too close, after Phillip's death. She could trust him enough to get them out of the caves. The creature would not violate one of its own so terribly, would it?

"Fine," he coughed in response to Walter and spat another mouthful of the blue liquid. "Let's just get going."

They pressed onward, their eyes adjusting to the darkness enough that they were able to follow Dara as he lead them upon various treks and paths. Despite the earlier assault, he remained upright, taught, controlled, as though the violation had never occurred. It was almost strange, following him now that he was unmasked. She had almost become accustomed to him being the faceless hand that pushed and prodded her along a particular path. But this…this added an entirely new layer of doubt.

"We'll need to jump down," Dara explained as they came to a small ledge. Without waiting for confirmation, he leapt deftly downward and waited for the others to follow.

Keturah peered over the ledge, seeing Dara at the bottom and noting how his eyes almost seemed to glow unnaturally bright in the dark, as though he raw lightning illuminated them from within. She glanced to Walter, who stood back hesitantly.

"You go on ahead. I'll follow you," he stated, clearly hesitant.

She nodded in confirmation and hopped down. She'd underestimated the depth of it and ended up stumbling forward clumsily. Dara, however, managed to catch her around the waist and right her. She glanced to him in surprise, but found that his visage was expressionless, his lips pressed into a thin line and his gaze directed toward the ledge, as though waiting for something special to occur. There was no frustration or disgust with her weakness, as she'd expected. Instead remained focused on the ledge waiting for Walter to descend she assumed.

"You alright down there?" He called.

"Yes! It isn't far down!" Keturah called back to him.

"Right then," Walter murmured, clapping his hands together and rubbing them to spread the tingling and readying himself for the surge of unease in his belly at the jump. "Ready… Three…Two…One-"

Walter's counting was cut short as the unholy screech of the creature echoed on the ledge, overpowering Walter's own cry of fear. There were the short, frantic sounds of a scuffle, and then silence.

"Walter?" Keturah yelped, clawing at the ledge in a futile attempt to scale to the precipice and aid her friend. "Walter!" She called again in vain. There was no answer, only the cackling of the creature as it dissipated in a putrid cloud of black smog.

"_You let him die! You let him die!_" Mocked the voice, returning.

"What is that?" hissed Keturah, whirling on Dara, who had drawn his sword.

"The Crawler," he responded, his eyes narrowing and gazing off toward the sandy chasm they were in. "He and the Children compose the Darkness."

"_He bleeds light_," murmured the Crawler, tauntingly.

Keturah charged forward brashly, hurtling her way past the Children, spewing Willed fire in her wake and leaving Dara to fend off the stragglers who were not caught in the initial torrent. She had to find Walter, she had to. This was a place of nightmares. She had to save him, had to free him from the evil Crawler, had to retract him from the children's grasp.

"_You should see it…it's so beautiful!_"

She did not know how long she and Dara ran. She did not care. She needed to find Walter. She was deaf to the Crawler's voice echoing around her. The sound of her own desperate breathing and the pounding of her heart did well enough to block whatever noise was around her. If Dara spoke, she did not hear him. She did not care to. Walter…_By Avo's light, please be alive._

* * *

><p>Dara was nothing short of impressed by the Princess's tenacity in charging through the Children. He did his best to keep up with her, though it was difficult with the blow the Crawler had dealt him. His innards still writhed in pain and made running difficult. He feared the consequences of the Crawler's touch, but was unable to focus well with Keturah rushing forward so brazenly. He was only sad at the image that greeted her.<p>

Walter stood on the altar of the temple, surrounded by the black ooze of the Darkness. It coated his legs and feet, anchoring him in places as it tore through his flesh, clawing through his chest and through the veins in his neck to emerge once more as tears of blackness in the corners of his eyes. He was stretched painfully, sacrificially, before the Crawler and the Children, gurgling and hoarse with pain. Keturah moved forward to touch Walter, but Dara caught the crook of her arm, if only just.

"Release me!" she cried, whirling and trying to wrench herself from his grip.

Her struggle only succeeded in causing him to tighten his grasp. "Do not touch him!" Dara shouted, hoping that by raising his voice he could penetrate through the stubborn rage that had consumed her.

"I have to help him!" She screamed. "Release me!"

Dara was firm on his hold. The vision of her in the same predicament as Walter, with the Darkness writhing beneath her skin and pouring from her lips and eyes, swam before him, contorting reality with the hints and promises of the Veil. The added ache of the Crawler's mutilation of his core did not aid in his ability to resist the addling of his Sight.

Keturah drew her pistol. "Let me go!"

Dara did not move, though he had no doubt she would shoot him. His grip did not loosen.

She snarled and fired a warning shot past his ear. "Let me go!"

Again, when he did not comply, she struggled and flailed against him, beating his chest, shoulders, head, anything she could reach. She even drew close enough to attempt to bring her knee up into the sensitive area of his groin. He managed to dodge, however, and caught the crook of her knee, causing her to trip and stumble backward and onto her bum. In her stupor ,he managed to draw his sword and flick the pistol from her grip. "You've more dangerous enemies than me, Princess. I suggest you focus on them," he snarled.

As though cued, the Darkness cackled around them and his voice caused the trembling of the temple floor the statues serving as the sentinel guardians of the Darkness groaned from their centuries-old positions and stepped forward, whirling their wicked weapons and stomping toward where Dara and Keturah were on the stairs leading to the altar.

"Have we an accord?" Dara inquired, offering a hand to help the Princess to her feet.

She slapped his hand away and pulled herself upright, retrieving her pistol angrily and shoving him away from her. To his immense relief, she did not charge for Walter. Instead, she focused intently on the statues lumbering toward them and he smirked. She was not completely foolish after all, it seemed.

Dara brandished Tantalize at the sentinels and slipped forward.

"_We have been waiting three centuries for your arrival,_" the Crawler hissed, as though welcoming Keturah to the deepest, most sacrilegious part of its core. "_You see all those people you want to _save_. All those people you want to _control_. They will all die. They will all join the Darkness, become the Children's toys. We are coming, and there is nothing you can do to stop us._"


	14. City of Nightmares

**Chapter Twelve**

_City of Nightmares_

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><p><em><strong>Thank you to everyone who's been reading this story. I apologize for the long hold it's been put on…Skyrim kinda absorbed my life over break. But I've recovered from my addiction and am ready to continue.<strong>_

_**College and life kinda got in the way, too. But that goes without saying.**_

_**Hope you enjoy!**_

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><p>Keturah wept as she fought the statues, her rage at the unjust torture inflicted on Walter shining with every bullet she fired at the stone sentinels and every handful of molten fury she spewed at their darkened cores. Her anger made her stronger, made her faster…but also made her infinitely more stupid. She recklessly charged and shot at the statues, dodging their attacks and hurtling whatever was best at them. She missed a majority of the time with her rifle, her vision blurred with tears.<p>

Damn Dara. Damn the Crawler and the Darkness and the Children! What has Walter done to deserve such an atrocious calamity? He'd been a faithful soldier to her father and a loyal retainer to Keturah. Why had Dara halted her in her advance?

Her rifle clicked harmlessly as she aimed down sight at one of the lumbering statues. Her heart thundered in alarm and she hastily returned it to its saddle at her back. The animated behemoth charged at her and, clumsily, she tugged her sword from her scabbard, flailing it pathetically at the oncoming opponent. The action did little good, however, and she was knocked to the ground by the large human-esque creature and her sword clattered far out of the way of her grasp. She screamed in pain as the creature pinned her with a heavy foot on her pelvis and poised its weaponed-hand to deal the finishing blow.

A gunshot sounded and the statue stumbled backward with a heavy groan, freeing her enough that she could scramble out of the way. Whirling, she found Dara advancing on the statue, Tantalize in his left hand and her father's sword in his right. With a snarl he slashed and jabbed at the statue, effectively debilitating it and draining whatever wicked force had animated it.

"Learn to use that properly," he spat, his pale eyes glowing in the dark chamber. "It becomes nothing but a hindrance in unskilled hands." He tossed her sword back to her gruffly and sheathed his own, hobbling forward to where the inky blackness was beginning to drain from Walter.

Keturah pulled herself to her feet, part limping and part running ahead of Dara to catch and support a quickly collapsing Walter.

"Keturah?" He inquired, his large calloused hand reaching out to her pathetically. "I-I can't see."

She felt her heart break, but swallowed the sob as she hoisted Walter and supported him with a shoulder under his arm. "It's alright Walter. I see a light."

It was true. The miasma that had clogged the frail illumination from the promised exit had dissipated, revealing bright, wondrous light and a warm, promising breeze.

Dara took up a supportive position at the other side of Walter and together they began to slowly walk with the older man toward the exit.

"That thing…it's like it sucked all the life from inside me," Walter gasped, clinging desperately to Keturah.

She was at a loss for words and cast a hopeful glance to Dara. He was of this area…surely he could say something comforting.

Dara remained silent and stoic, however, inky liquid dripping from his nose as he continued to shoulder Walter's weight.

"And the voice…you can hear it to, can't you?"

Keturah gritted her teeth and again looked to Dara. This time he met her gaze, but it was with a grimace that spoke volumes more than anything Walter might tell her. It explained whatever phenomenon he was experiencing: there was no voice. Anything the old man heard was completely of his own imagination, or completely the Crawler's doing.

They continued hobbling until out into the sun they came, on the steps of the temple to be bathed in the searing heat of an endless wasteland.

"What do you see?" Walter gasped.

Keturah was beyond the point of sobbing, though tears welled from her eyes and spilled down her cheeks in salty rivulets. "A desert," she answered.

* * *

><p>Dara was rather impressed with the princess's effort. She persisted nearly half-way to Aurora, helping him shoulder Walter's weight. But the Crawler and the Darkness and clawed into each and every one of them deeply and she soon expired. She collapsed beside Walter and Dara chose then to call upon the favor Neyguine owed him. He pulled a small bone whistle from a leather cord about his neck. Holding the loop in his hand, he began swinging the bone necklace in an arc, causing the air to rush through the small trinket and emit a shrill sound. She had given him the thing long ago, when he'd first initiated the rituals between her tribe and the Aurorans. He prayed she still answered the call. It weren't as though he hadn't done enough for her.<p>

"They made it through, then?" She inquired, sliding down the sand dune and peering at the two corpse-like figures that lay in the filth.

Dara was inhibited from answering, a violent pain rippling through his core and making him sick with agony. He doubled over and retched, blood dribbling from his lips and onto the sand. The entirety of his bowels seemed to be writhing and fighting against him. It was a struggle to maintain proper posture against the irrationally painful cramping. He breathed deeply, trying to stem the combined discomfort and nausea. Angry with his own weakness, he kicked sand over the pool of blood and peered up at the cloaked woman.

"They made it," he gasped, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

Neyguine gazed on passively. "The Crawler got to you, did he?"

Dara snarled. "Please, Neyguine. The Auroran's aren't far off. Help me."

"Are you begging me?" She inquired mockingly.

"If it gets the princess off the ground and into Aurora then, _yes_," he panted.

"That hardly sounded sincere, Dara."

"Neyguine," he hissed, coughing heavily and turning his head to spit more blood.

She sighed heavily, frustrated that he would use his favor on such a task. He knew that she held precious little empathy for humans, particularly women. But she dutifully lifted the princess and slung the girl's body over her shoulders. Dara bent and lifted Walter, putting a shoulder into the man's belly so that he might support the weight with his back.

He gritted his teeth against the protest from his body as he trudged forward through the desert. Slowly but surely, the once-great statues of Aurora came into view. Dara could feel his strength ebbing, pouring from lesions seen and unseen. His left boot was filled with blood and sloshed grimly with each step he took through the sands. The wound at his side burned fiercely with each movement he made and his lungs ached as he breathed beneath Walter's weight. The promise of rest did little to aid the pain, but it at least gave him hope. He prayed to the Light he made it safely to the Aurorans. He did not trust Neyguine to follow through with carrying the princess if he were to collapse. The old man could die – he was ultimately inconsequential. The princess, though, had to be saved.

"You think the girl will trust you, now that she's seen your hideous face?" Neyguine inquired.

Dara gritted his teeth, intent on ignoring her mocking. The effort and agony of the journey made an easy distraction and it was rather simple to focus on. "She'll trust Kalin."

Neyguine was mercifully silent after that comment. As they reached the borders of the city, where neither she nor her kind were permitted, the tall woman slipped the princess from her shoulders and gently into the sands. "I'll take that whistle, Seer."

Dara slipped Walter gratefully from his shoulder and withdrew the small necklace. "Thank you," he muttered as she took it.

"Do not thank me," she spat. "I'll still see your head on a stick in the near future."

_If I manage to evade the Crawler,_ he growled as she slipped away into the rolling sands of the desert.

The wait was not long. Dara's vision was beginning to rim in blackness and tunnel to fine points. But not before he saw Kalin and the party of Aurorans. Midir and Lugh were among the faces, along with Captain Benjamin Finn.

"Dara!" Kalin gasped, rushing toward him, her hands fluttering, frightened of touching him for fear she'd further injure him.

He saved her the trouble and brushed her hands aside. "Get the princess and the retainer. I can make the journey." He did not believe his own words for a moment, but he would be damned if he saw his sister suffer any more for his sake.

Keturah muttered from where she lay in the sand. Ben was at her side instantly, holding her hand and desperately attempting to pull her back to reality. Dara knew it would do no good – nothing save a cleansing would rid them of the taint of the Crawler. But best to let the eager captain fuss and believe he was doing good. A blind man could see he was taken with the young woman.

"What manner of wickedness is this?" Demanded Hassan, one of the stronger men of the village.

Dara cast a withering glance to him. He could only imagine what he looked like – his blood stained his clothing an inky blue and his markings were surely burning through his skin having been exposed to the Crawler. He didn't dare reach up to touch his horns.

"Hassan, he rescued them." Kalin muttered. "Help us get them back into the city. Quickly…before night falls."

* * *

><p>The eerie carapaces of the Crawler's claws and body haunted her dreams. Everywhere she turned, the voice, the nightmare in the caves, Dara's cruel words, and Walter's desperation returned. She felt pulls and pressures on her body, as though she were adrift in an ocean and subject to its wily currents. The tugging, however, eased the ache the Crawler had created, sewed shut the wound it had cleaved upon her heart by haunting her with images of a tortured Walter, a city of hateful people, and her brother's blood on her hands.<p>

Slowly, she opened her eyes to see a wide stone ceiling and, slowly, sat up from the bed she'd been on. She peered around her, seeing Walter resting on a bed of similar construct to hers. The markings on the wall were strange, not of Albion and similar to other exotic carpets and imports the palace possessed from its neighbor to the south. A robed priest chanted over him, making motions with her hands that Keturah hoped would help him. They'd made it to Aurora…blessedly, they'd made it to Aurora.

She wanted to run to Walter, to embrace him and promise him that she'd never meant to harm him, that it hadn't been her intention on leaving him to waste away in the desert. But she restrained herself – anything the priest was doing was probably well and good. She didn't want to disturb the ritual and risk injuring him further.

"Ah, so the princess finally wakes," came a man's voice from over her shoulder.

Keturah turned and grinned, "Ben! Thank Avo you survived!"

"Of course I did," he assured her gallantly, clapping her on the shoulder. "Pity you didn't have an easier time getting here. I was having fun frolicking on the beach. Then I realized I was being an ass and went to find help."

"So you sent Dara?" Keturah inquired, frowning. "Where is he?"

Ben grimaced. "I hardly sent him. The poor sod's right over there."

Keturah followed the line of Ben's gaze and gasped at the sight that met her. Horns, thick and ridged like the protrusions on a ram's head, extended from his temples and curled with the line of his jaw. He lay on his back with his arms at his side and palms turned up toward the ceiling. Bandages had been wrapped around his belly and showed dark near-black stains through them. She also saw that his tattoos extended well past simply his neck, but cascaded down his shoulders, across his chest, and over his hip-bones as though they were the marking on some sort of animal.

"He'd be the spitting image of Reaver if not for those nasty…things…on his head."

Keturah frowned. He did not look like Reaver to her. His features were stern, even in sleep, not cruel and mocking as the tyrant he bore a likeness to. The lines of him were more angular, more rugged than Reaver's sophisticated posh. It seemed an insult to compare the two.

"What…" was all Keturah managed.

"Princess."

Keturah turned to see a slender, bald woman with colorful markings along her face and body approach them, her hands clasped before her demurely.

"It is good to finally meet you, Princess. Though I wish it had been on a more pleasant occasion. I am Kalin, leader of these people."

She nodded. "Likewise." She cast a furtive glance to Walter. "Is he - ?"

Kalin's face was impassive as she replied, "The Darkness is deep within him. Few return. But he is strong. I believe he will survive."

Ben laughed and tugged lightly on a strand of Keturah's hair. "He's a tough old nut. He'll pull through, don't you worry."

Keturah glanced back to Dara. "The Crawler…it's touch…I saw it…" The image of the creature tearing through the Auroran's torso replayed and she cringed violently. Ben's hand went up to grip her shoulder comfortingly and she desperately leaned into the warmth and the light he offered. "Did it's touch give him those wounds…? Those horns?"

"In a way," Kalin commented, her affect suddenly not entirely flat.

She frowned. Were all Aurorans like this? Did they all speak so vaguely, in circles like Dara and Krevan? "That is no answer," Keturah almost growled to Kalin.

The woman's brows knit together to match Keturah's expression and she replied levelly, "It is not my role to communicate to you the depth of his wounds. I may only say that he has done a great deal for you."

Keturah scowled and opened her mouth to protest.

Kalin simply closed her eyes and held up her hand to indicate the wish for silence on Keturah's behalf. "If you require further details, you'd best ask him yourself. For now, follow me, Princess."

Ben's arm around her disappeared and he gave her a slight nudge forward. "Go on, Princess. I've…I've seen enough for tonight."

She was not at all comfortable with the haunted look that existed in the seasoned soldier's eyes, but followed Kalin regardless, wishing to be away from the sights of a broken Walter and a monstrous Dara. But the ache on her heart did not lessen as she went out into the city and read the inscriptions on the buildings and spoke to a man waiting for the Cralwer to take him. She shuddered as she imagined the desperation in him, how dark his world must be to willingly await that monster's embrace. Her trials in the caves still haunted her and became alive once more in the darkness of the Auroran streets. She saw shadows and shining blades, men in uniforms similar to Dara's and Krevan's.

"Logan broke his promise," Kalin concluded from her long line of speech. "He did not send any troops back for us. He gave us no protection. We saved him from the Cralwer and he _abandoned us_, took from us the only thing we have – hope."

Keturah cringed at the assaults Kalin flung at her brother. There was no denying that he had abandoned the Aurorans, exploited them for their resources and left them to do battle with the Crawler. He hadn't sent troops because he'd been far too concerned with tyrannizing his own folk with his hired-on soldiers and aiding Reaver in conquests to earn gold and maintain control. But…these continued to seem the actions of a stranger, not of her brother.

"We will offer the few we have to build your army in the fight against Logan," Kalin murmured, her voice thin and sharp as a pane of glass. Her eyes commanded Keturah's meet them, demanded that she understood what Logan could not, to do what he could not. "Please. The Crawler is coming. You've seen it for yourself. Aurora will be decimated without aid from Albion…and you _must_be on the throne to guard us. You must do what your brother could not. Promise me that you will protect Aurora."

Keturah swallowed, attempting to stifle the tremors as she reached her hand out to Kalin to shake the Auroran's hand. This was too much. This was all too much. She was expected to kill her brother, avenge Elliot, avenge Swift and Krevan, and now avenge Aurora. The masses clamored for his blood wailed for a new leader- demanded she be placed on the throne to lead them. But not it was not simply against tyranny. The wager had been made higher. A darkness that embodied all the fears she'd ever experienced was coming and there was nothing she could do to keep it from clawing at the hearts of her people. Nothing save hope she could bolster defenses competent enough to eradicate the threat.

"I promise," she said as firmly as she was able.

* * *

><p>Keturah returned to the stone sanctuary atop the hill after her grim tour of the decimated Aurora. She rested beside Walter, stroking his temple and helping the priest to pour water into his parched mouth and rub at his throat to induce swallowing. Kalin's words hung heavily on her. Walter had always been so strong…so impregnable and stoic in the face of any gale or storm…and now he lay like a broken doll before her. He embodied everything she feared, everything she'd been pressing to deepest recesses of her heart: her world was crumbling and now it was no longer simply her father's kingdom under her brother's reign. She was no longer "saving them" from a tyrant. She was expected to save them from a nightmare.<p>

She bent and kissed Walter's brow, biting her tongue to stifle the tears that were beginning to flow. Keturah then stood and exited the temple as calmly as she could, retreating as far as she dared away from the stone buildings of Aurora. With every step she quelled the urge to run. The sun was beginning to tinge the sky a bloody red and she chanced traveling to the hill away from the city.

Only when the sound of rushing water met her ears did she stop, collapsing into a huddled ball, clinging to her sides as though she were able to contain the shards of her fears, prevent them from rupturing her heart and pricking her lungs. The attempt was in vain – her chest burned regardless, her head throbbing with tears shed and unshed.

She was unsure of how long she sobbed… her voice was horse, her lips cracked and dry and her eyes red and swollen and no moisture remained. And it was only then that she became aware of the form crouched beside her – close, but not too close, just as he'd been before.

"You always find me like this," she croaked, gripping her sides more firmly. It was a feeble attempt to protect herself from his sarcasm and harshness.

Dara did not respond and his silence surprised her. She glanced up to him and saw him carving a gold-orange fruit into more manageable pieces. He was clothed in the light, colorful, layered clothing of Aurora, though his arms were bare to the shoulders and the markings plainly visible. His horns remained, as well.

"Persimmon," he explained, extending the sliced fruit to her. "I see you've found my sanctuary."

"Sanctuary?" She inquired, hesitantly accepting the offering and glancing at him skeptically. Surely he was not so readily healed? He bore no Hero's blood, after all.

"Where I come to meditate," he clarified, his pale eyes assessing her as he carefully nibbled at his own portion of food. "You survived. I am glad."

Keturah was at a loss of how to respond and so looked down toward the water, savoring the strange flavor of the fruit on her tongue.

"What, no questions?" Dara prompted with a low chuckle.

She scowled at the water and then at the fruit in her hand. "Why do you always feed me when I'm crying? First chocolate and now fruit – is it an Auroran custom?"

"It gives your mouth something to do other than worry your lip raw," he provided simply, stretching his long form out with great trepidation – wounded after all. "And no, it's no custom. I simply thought you might be hungry."

Keturah nodded. "What do you know of Heros?" The inquiry was purely rhetorical. She hardly expected him to provide her with much of an answer past 'only what I've heard in stories'. She was simply musing aloud, wondering if he, like all the others, believed a Hero unassailable and stoic.

"Enough," he responded idly. "I know that Hero's skilled in Will often develop the slightest glows to their skin that flare when they tap into their power. I also know that those skilled with ranged weapons – bows, rifles, the sort – grow long and lithe."

She couldn't help but laugh. "Wonderful! I'd had enough difficulty finding a man taller than me in the ballrooms. To think the reason I tower over them now is due to my using my rifle!"

"A smile!" Dara exclaimed gently, the smallest smirk appearing on his stern features. "Do another, Princess, I'm not sure I saw it."

She frowned at him, though it was more out of inquisitiveness rather than anger. "Why?"

"Because I'm a blind old man," he sneered with a raised brow.

"No," she grunted. "Why now? Why behave civilly toward me now? Why show me your face now? Why lead me on to this point?"

Dara's features hardened once more. Any lightness that was there disappeared and he glowered out across the water toward the waterfall. "You would not have followed me had I remained unmasked. Other things would have held your attention. You'd never have come to Aurora."

"You speak as though I were little more than a piece in a game," she said, turning dark herself.

"Not pieces and not a game," Dara corrected sternly. "Threads and a tapestry, roots of a tree, perhaps, but not pieces and not a game."

"You speak in riddles," Keturah grumbled. She'd thought she might gain some openness from him. But he continued to be elusive, to speak as though she were nothing more than an ignorant child who knew not right from wrong. "To me, they are one and the same."

"That is not so," Dara murmured. "A game implies that there will be a winner and a loser, the winner being the master manipulator. In a tapestry, there is only the beginning and the end – the threads and the finished product. The only manipulation that occurs is at the will of the loom's master. To you, his name is Avo. For us, he is the Light. There are many patterns threads can take, many paths to be chosen to follow."

Keturah was humbled and silenced by the small speech and remained silent for a long while.

"I did not kill Saker in cold blood," Dara murmured, almost as though it hurt and shamed him to speak. "Had you let him live, he would have gone back on his word and killed you. Had you slaughtered him, his men would have done the same to you. Best a third party intervene and kill Saker."

"And how do you know that?" She challenged, the stubborn part of her mind rearing as the wound was rubbed and irritated at the mention of the mercenaries' name.

"How I know does not matter," Dara snarled, pinning her with his gaze.

Keturah was prevented from inquiring further. The look behind his eyes told her that he was just as raw from the journey as she was.

"Why tell me, then?" She whispered. "Why tell me why you killed Saker?"

"I want you to trust me," he whispered in return. "As strange a manner as I've gone about attempting to secure your trust, my desire is genuine." His gaze was still on hers, the pale hue sparking with an inner lightning. The intensity was enough to take her breath away.

"You want me to trust you?" She gasped.

Dara nodded, his gaze not deviating.

"Then you must answer me one question – and completely, not in riddles."

Dara's brows knit and his gaze assessed her intently. He searched her eyes, as though attempting to pull the possibilities of what she might ask from thin air and calculate the danger of each and every one of them. But, eventually, he nodded. "So be it."

"I've read books on Heroes," Keturah began, her eyes shifting to trace along the line of his jaw where the tattoos were…and where his horns curled. "They detail accounts of evil warriors blessed with Hero's blood, how those around them would know them by the horns and their enormous stature."

A mocking grin came to Dara's lips. "You think I'm a Hero?"

Keturah exhaled heavily. "I don't know…which is why you must answer my question: what _are_you?"

Dara did not respond, though she watched as his jaw clenched and the muscle in his neck bulged with the effort. She supposed he was so accustomed to hiding beneath his cowl that he was unaware that she could read the tension his body exuded. Every muscle seemed taut, as though he were prepared to stand and run, pretend he had never heard the question.

"You promised," Keturah prompted feebly.

"You won't believe me if I told you," Dara finally said, breaking eye contact and moving to stand. "But I am no Hero."

Before she was truly aware of what she was doing, Keturah leapt forward and gripped his horn fiercely, jerking his gaze back to hers and halting his motion to rise. His shoulders were backed against the wall of the slight basin and Keturah's mass prevented him from attempting to move forward…unless his plan was to shove her out of the way.

"Answer the question!" She almost shouted. "You want me to trust you? How can I trust a _creature_like you, who speaks in backward sentences and metaphorical phrases?"

"'Creature' is a very apt term, Princess," Dara snarled back. Keturah almost swore she saw a flickering of blue-ish light from within his tattoos. "Perhaps I'll adopt it as my new name! I can be the palace _creature_whom all the nobles point at and gaggle over when you're on the throne."

She did not rise to the taunt, did not challenge his belief that she would take the throne of Albion. "Answer the question."

Dara's teeth clenched once more and he glowered at her. Keturah glared right back, her hand still on his horn and controlling his head. His lips moved then, so quickly and so softly she thought at first it had been a trick of her imagination. But she was not deaf to the answer.

"Sand Fury."


	15. Lessons Learned

**Chapter Thirteen**

_Lessons Learned_

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><p><em><strong>AN: Thank you very much to those of you who've patiently waited for me to update this darn thing and to those of you who've offered me wonderful constructive criticism and insights. Your words and opinions are priceless and I appreciate them very much.**_

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><p>"A Sand Fury?" Keturah repeated incredulously, her brows still furrowed. "There are no male Sand Furies."<p>

"Not anymore there aren't," Dara countered. "May I have my head back, please?" The request was almost spat.

Keturah released her hold of his horn, gazing at him with newfound fascination as he tilted his head and kneaded the cords of muscle at the back of his neck. Sand Fury? Surely not.

"Your disbelief isn't surprising," he murmured, his gaze not meeting hers as he watched the rippling water in the small pool before them. "But I suppose you're not Auroran – you've not grown up with them on your doorstep, privileged little thing that you were as a child."

She frowned. His gaze was unfocused, as though he were staring at something infinitely far away from where the two of them sat now. Keturah glanced away from him in a futile attempt to glimpse what it was he was staring at and saw only the reflection of the chasm around them in the water.

"This gun, the Desert Fury, is what the females used to slaughter the last of the men in their tribes," he said, withdrawing the pistol she'd seen him use to slay Lieutenant Simmons.

"Why?" Keturah inquired, knowing of nothing better to do than question him given his current trance-like state. He was present, physically. Yet he seemed markedly distant from her, as though his mind were privy to the phenomena of another world and his physical body remained behind. He seemed to have been encased in a spell of stillness, his voice like an echo in the darkness of a forgotten cave.

Then, as suddenly as he'd retracted, he returned along with the sharpness of his body and features. His pale gaze found hers once more. "Tribe dynamics made sense for it to be so. Few Sand Fury offspring survive after birth. Those that do are predominantly women. Legend says that their line was once descended from the Heroes of old and the men possessed Will flowing through their veins as surely as it does yours, Princess. It was what was said to determine their leadership as the chieftains of the tribe."

"Did Will flow through their veins, or was it only a myth?" She could not help but be enthralled by the story. Her only experience with Sand Furies had been the ones she'd dealt with during her time in the pit in Reaver's mansion. Even with their frightening masks and all-encasing armor, it had been clear that they were female. Any literature she could recall spoke only of females existing and that the absence of males left it a mystery how they procreated.

Dara shrugged, "Light only knows. But the Sand Furies' numbers began to dwindle with such a small male population and so they sought human mates. That was how it came to be found that the mother's race determined that of her child's. No matter the father, the child would be born a Sand Fury and the blood of the tribe would remain thick." He returned the pistol to his hip and moved to stand, his movements made jerky with trepidation. "The males' position of power became envied and viewed as superfluous – women held the true power. So they were slaughtered by the females and the Sand Furies became nothing but a strong community of women. If a male child was born, he was abandoned to the harshness of the desert. After centuries of the practice, people forgot that males existed."

Keturah simply looked on in mute wonder as Dara gingerly stood and stretched his long limbs, favoring one side.

"What?" he demanded gruffly, noticing her staring.

She simply smiled meekly and shook her head. "Nothing – this is simply the most I've ever heard you speak. I half expect you to disappear into the dark."

He chuckled, lips curving ever so slightly. Mirth even managed to touch his eyes. "No. There'll be no more of that, Princess." He stepped toward her and offered her a hand to help her stand. "Come. Let's get you back into the city. I've a thing or two to teach you before your return to Albion."

She accepted his hand and he pulled her to her feet. "Teach me?"

"Yes," he returned easily.

"What could you _possibly_ teach me?" She inquired, matching his careful pace as he descended the hill.

"How to use a sword, to start," he murmured, "And how to control your temper."

Memory of Krevan's words on the subject echoed through her skull, their sound ricocheting as painfully as a bullet might have. She remembered him on the dais, standing beside Major Swift as they were both shot as surely as a mad dog or a lame horse would be.

"Why did you stop Ben?"

"Beg your pardon?"

"When Krevan and Swift were executed for 'treason'," the last word was bitter on her tongue. The wrinkle in her nose surely showed it. "Ben would have created a commotion, done something. One or both of them could have escaped."

Dara let out a long, delayed breath and kept his eyes forward purposefully, "The chance of their freedom wasn't worth the price."

"And what price was that, oh all-knowing one?" Keturah challenged, unable to believe that there was too high a cost to save some of the brightest souls in all of Albion and Aurora.

He smirked and glanced at her, though the gesture contained no semblance of gladness. "Suffer through my lessons and perhaps then I'll tell you."

"Perhaps?" Keturah quoted him irately as he led her past the city center –where a great deal of eyes followed them- to what she could only assume was a courtyard of some sort filled with paraphernalia suggesting training grounds. "I thought you were beyond skulking in the dark now, Dara."

"I'm not skulking," he retorted, tossing her a blunt piece of metal with a disc loosely welded to one end. "I simply need you to focus your attention elsewhere. Your skills with a rifle are excellent and your prowess with Will is passable enough. But they will not protect you should an opponent get too close."

"Then I'll not let them get close," she said looking down at the thing he'd tossed her. "Is this supposed to be a sword?"

"You can't rely on that assumption, Princess," Dara replied fetching his own blunted, rusted 'blade'. "And it is a practice sword, yes." He moved to face her with the blade in his left hand and paused a moment before shifting it to his right. "Let's see what Walter taught you."

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><p>He supposed that her mentor had taught her well enough and with the best intentions. But everything she did was schooled, stiff, and awkward, as though he'd taught her parries without teaching her to compensate for her opponent's reach or speed. But she'd the basic stance and a knowledge of how to hold a blade, if nothing else. It was more starting material than most had when he taught them swordsmanship.<p>

One saving grace, he supposed, was that she certainly learned quickly and was receptive to his corrective criticisms. She humored him when he asked her to repeat a motion slowly again and again and stretched and retreated appropriately. She truly was a Hero's daughter, a natural with any weapon she lifted, a powerful instrument of destruction and mayhem in the form of a beautiful young woman.

"Good," he called when the wound at his side could sustain no more prompted lunges or feints and disengagements.

"That's all?" Keturah lamented. But realization came soon afterward and she nodded gracefully. "Of course," she corrected.

"How do you feel," he inquired, stepping forward to take the foiled blade from her.

She raised her hand to deny his offer to return the sword to its resting place and stepped along with him to perform the deed. "Well enough, I suppose. Tired." She peered at his injured side skeptically. "How are you? In the cave…the Cralwer…"

He raised his hand dismissively. "Soon it will simply be another scar. You need not concern yourself over a humble servant, Highness." It was best she didn't. He already knew how fragile her psyche was after the travesty that had occurred with Walter. He supposed he ought to speak with her of it, to offer comfort and something of a refuge to her, provide her with a box in which she might lock away her pain. He was familiar with speaking to his men, to aid them with their domestic plights and offer what insight he could before they were deployed into Albion for the revolution. They were no good to him in such a situation if the matters of their heart were turbulent. But a Princess…until now, their communication had been rough, at best, him giving her no truly viable option except to follow him and heed his instructions. He'd planned out most of their encounters, known where to nip and prune the paths of the future so that hers was more straight and true. His planning had crescendoed to this point and even it had been a struggle. Theresa would have been leaps and bounds ahead of where he was now in planning. She would scold him for his short-sightedness.

"No, it did something else to you, didn't it?" Keturah prompted adamantly. "The statue made that wound on your side. The Crawler…it…," she paused, biting her lip and struggling to find words.

"Princess," Dara growled, preferring that she not fuss over what could not be changed. "You needn't worry about the Crawler's actions in the cave."

"Do _not _say that to me," Keturah snarled, sparks flaring in her eyes suddenly. "I have every need to be worried over the Crawler's actions. You heard its warning as clearly as I did. You saw what it did to Walter, what it can easily do to you, to me, and to my people."

Dara turned to face her fully, searching her face, watching the position of her shoulders and her arms. Her posture was defensive and tense and the vessels in her wrists and hands throbbed against her pale skin. The red, vine-like markings began pulsing in a rhythm to match her angry heart-beat. "Your temper, Princess," he scolded lightly, more interested in teaching a lesson than controlling her.

He saw her flinch, this time the action clearer than when she'd done it the last he'd mentioned her fits of anger. "And do _not_speak to me of my temper!"

"And why shouldn't I?" Dara challenged, grudgingly eager to press her. Her psyche was delicate, but perhaps it was yet flexible enough to stand another blow. "Your temper is the cause for a lot of the casualties of this revolution, Princess." He watched the Will lines glow brighter and continued. "You would not have been forced to decide between Elliot and the people had you not charged into the War Room without knowing your brother's madness."

"Do _not_ speak _his _name," Keturah muttered, her voice dark.

"Elliot?" Dara challenged, sneering. Visions of what might-have-been had Elliot lived hadn't been promising. "Yes, Princess. He's dead. Because of you."

"Quiet!" She shouted, her face growing red with the surge of anger and her arms and legs quivering beneath the force of her rage.

"Swift and Krevan are dead. Because. Of. You." He was careful to enunciate every word clearly.

"I said _quiet!_" She screamed, this time the sound more brassy and uncontrolled. One more push.

"Walter will die _because of you_."

He could almost hear her reserve splinter and crack beneath the weeks and months of pent-up guilt, frustration, and anger at her situation. Furious tears streamed down her face as she wailed and charged at him with her bare fists. Blind with anger, her blows were simple enough to dodge and block, even while wounded. He waited for her fury to abade slightly and, when it did, he hooked his leg around to press the weak point in her knee and forced her to stumble backward against the wall of the courtyard. Before she could recover, he pinned her arms to her sides and forced a knee between her legs to protect his groin should she get the urge to kick him.

"Stop, Keturah," he murmured, keen on bleeding out this sickness that threatened to consume her. "Stop and feel."

She continued to thrash against him, but he simply held her restrained without increasing the amount of force applied.

"Feel." He ordered again. "This is the danger of your temper."

"You provoked me!" She snarled. "Spat those lies –"

"None of what I said was a lie, Princess," he interrupted. "But I did taunt you. Your foes will do worse. The Cralwer will do worse. I knew how to make you furious and so I did. If I make you angry, I make you stupid."

He studied her face, watching as the blazing fire of indignance and rage slowly smoldered into the smoky wisps of guilt and, finally, into the ashes of acceptance. Only then did he release her and step away, watching as her regal barriers were broken and tears flowed. This time he did not have sweet foods to try and comfort her, only words and gestures. At times like this, he'd seen Kalin embrace the other person and pray for them. He hardly thought it appropriate to embrace her – she might castrate him.

"I'm sorry, Princess," he murmured, suddenly unsure. Tactical games accounted for emotion, but not in this sense. He was accustomed to building morale among soldiers or manipulating women, but there was always a self-fulfilling goal. He'd saved open kindness for his sister. "Those blows were cruel."

She shook her head, sniffling. "You're right, Dara." She angrily swiped the tears from her eyes with her wrists. "It is my fault. I am responsible for their deaths. I issued the order on Elliot. It was my rebellion Krevan and Swift died for."

"You show the responsibilities of a leader," he commended her. "Whether deaths or victories, you accept responsibility. At the execution, I lost my dearest friend, my sister's husband. I traded his life for yours. The decision was mine and mine alone." Krevan could have been spared. Ben would have caused a ruckus. The guards would have been alerted to Keturah and Ben. Krevan and Swift could escape. Ben and Keturah would be captured. The Captain would have been executed, Keturah imprisoned and kept under close watch by Logan and particularly by Reaver, the puppet master in it all. She would not have come to Aurora. No aid would be sent to prevent the Crawler. The world would be drown in darkness

Keturah continued to angrily paw tears from her eyes.

Dara hesitantly reached out, ensuring that she saw his hand before her laid it against her shoulder in an attempt to encourage her. "I do not envy you one bit for the role you must play, Keturah. But I pray you do not torture yourself so arduously over those that are lost. Mourn them in your way. Remember their sacrifice, and make sure it was not in vain."

She was silent for a bit and then nodded, reaching up and giving a reassuring squeeze to his wrist. He removed his hand and stood away further, allowing her to stand up and move away from the wall. Then, quick as a desert snake, she lashed out with her fist and struck a solid blow into his belly before slapping him hard across the face.

"Ouch!" He snarled, doubled and clutching his abdomen as the attack echoed and throbbed against the wound at his side.

"Tell me why you know all that you do, all that you did." Keturah ordered, peering down on him with unpitying eyes. He supposed he deserved it. "I've put up with two lessons today: swordplay and temper-management. I believe I deserve some answers."

"I'm a Seer," Dara coughed, attempting to stand up straight and not wheeze while doing so. The Princess certainly had strength.

She blinked. "A Sand Fury and a Seer? You sound like some sort of Auroran Legend come true."

Dara retreated, forcing a chuckle out past the crackling in his ribs.

"Where are you going?" Keturah challenged.

"To rest," he retorted. "I'll need to be if I'm to be teaching you all I need to before we set sail for Albion."

* * *

><p>The next week involved a strange dance between waiting in anticipation as Walter recovered and an intense training regimen begun by Dara. Keturah supposed she should be grateful to the Auroran. Not only was he forcing her into productivity but also training her sword hand as well as blunting the sharpness of her temper. The man seemed tireless. By day, he schooled her technique, having her repeat drills again and again until the movement of parries and ripostes became second nature. The exchanged blows and delivered welts and bruises to one another's bodies and pride during the exercises until Keturah was pressed to the point of exhaustion. Then by night, the Sand Fury would lead his Wraiths, the strange militia group sharing the same shadowy regalia and possessing the duty of defending the desolate city of the Children during the night hours. He was truly something to marvel at and, slowly, she felt herself releasing the anger she harbored toward him for murdering Saker, for being the puppet master behind her stumbling journey to Aurora. She had not understood at first. But seeing him interact with his people, the way he spoke to his men, gave support, boosted morale and served as the military tactician alongside Kalin's calm diplomacy…she could hardly remain angry with him. He had guided her as he had to seek help for his people, offer her support in her rebellion against her brother to better prepare a defense from the Darkness. She could hardly discredit him for that.<p>

"Mind your parries, Kit" Dara snapped, delivering a solid blow against her blade and knocking her parry out of position enough to land a stinging slap against her arm.

Keturah squeaked in pain and alarm, quickly rubbing the throbbing sore and returning to a defensive stance. His pet-name for her did little to dull the ache.

Dara advanced and she appropriately retreated. He had switched to sparing her left-handed and was all the quicker because of it. She'd just gotten to the point where she was beginning to win their little encounters when he was handicapped.

"Does your Sight help you with this?" Keturah inquired.

He chuckled, thin lips curling into a wry smile. He did not deviate his trained eyes from her position to meet her gaze when he spoke. "The Sight is a fickle thing and my abilities are lacking, at best."

Keturah lunged. Dara parried and riposted but fell a hand's breadth short of striking her chest as she retreated. "Fickle how?"

"There is no grantee that the visions hold foretelling of the future. I see through the Veil. I glimpse things that may be, things that will be. But I also witness things that were, things that are, and things that would have been," Dara explained. He paused a moment and feinted. Keturah lashed out and sharply tapped his blade to knock it off-line and thrust the foiled blade against his chest.

The weapon met with a dull thud against the thickened leather hide of his Wraith's accoutrement. "Good," he complimented her. "You're getting faster." His near-white eyes shifted from where they'd been examining the insignificant dent to the hardened hide and up to her. "And Walter will be awake by now. I'm sure you want to visit him."

Keturah nodded and walked with Dara to return the weapons. "You see things that might have been?"

He nodded, "Yes. Had a different path been taken."

"Can you predict what the Veil will show you, then?" Keturah inquired, accepting a canteen of water he handed to her.

"Yes." He said, taking a mouthful of water. He seemed to realize the one-worded answer would not satisfy her and continued. "The act is called scrying. Still water helps to make things more clear, more easily predicted, less wispy." His tone shifted subtly, became darker toward the end.

"Dara, what have you seen?" She murmured, thoughts moving immediately to Walter, Ben and to the Revolution. Was she doomed to fail? How many casualties would there be? Was the effort even worth the terrible toll it would take on Albion's already sparse hopes?

His jaw tightened and his eyes shifted toward the temple in a gesture that they should move in that direction. "It isn't wise to fuss over every one of a Seer's visions. I can only speculate and monitor signs."

"I thought you were through speaking in riddles," Keturah challenged tiredly, following him toward the temple.

"Just practice caution around Reaver," Dara stated simply. "The man is a sick and twisted – pray your naïveté does not make you see good where there is not."

She flinched a bit at his harsh words. For all his teaching her and treating her with respect these few weeks, he still thought of her as a simpleton child. They walked the remaining distance into the temple in silence, Keturah watching the floor, her face red in shame. She was an utter fool for believing she'd earned the Sand Fury's respect.

"Princess!" Ben piped up from outside of Walter's quarters, striding forward and clapping a hand around her shoulder to direct her toward the old solder. He steered her away from Dara with perhaps a little more force than was necessary and she ended up stumbling clumsily and clinging to his uniform to keep from falling. "Your timing's impeccable. The old nut was just wakin' up and sayin' how he felt fit to sail and get this bloody revolution underway and won." Ben's eyes moved over his shoulder to where Dara stood in the passageway, clothed in the shadows created by the torches. "You don't mind if I take her away from 'training', do you, Sand Fury?"

Dara smirked, his pale eyes almost glowing. "Not at all, Captain. She's done for the day and likely fit enough to give even a seasoned fighter as yourself a troublesome time."

Ben guffawed and moved Keturah into Walter's quarters.

The man appeared as though he'd been aged ten years, though he appeared much healthier than he had when she'd first witnessed the Priestess chanting over him. His eyes were not sunken, his skin no longer seemed to be made of wax, and he was conscious. A smile appeared under his moustache as she approached him and seated herself beside him on the bed.

"Replaced your old soldier, eh?" Walter inquired with a merry chuckle. "Got someone else to teach you how to use that Hero's strength."

"A male Sand Fury still doesn't seem right to me," Ben muttered, arms folded over his chest and a soft scowl on his features. "I liked him better when he didn't go about flaunting those bloody horns. He looks damnably like those shadow-creature Children that Walter talked about."

"We owe him our lives, Ben," Walter stated. "Have some respect for the poor sod."

"He knows the horns intimidate you, Ben," Keturah teased with a grin. "Reminds you of the horror stories your mother told you to keep you in bed at night."

Ben scoffed indignantly. "They do not! They're just unnatural… bit like Jammy. Makes me shiver a bit is all, not cower in fear."

Walter stopped her and Ben's light-hearted teasing. "Come now, you two. I think it's time we begin preparations for our return to Albion. Kalin has agree to offer us all the Auroran warships and merchant vessels she has at her disposal. I spoke to her and she reported that Dara agreed to take a squadron of Wraiths and two vessels to aid in our cause. The only thing we've to do is devise a strategy."

"Let's get to it, then," Keturah murmured


	16. A Cry in the Dark

**Chapter Fourteen**

**_A Cry in the Dark_  
><strong>

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><p>Between Dara and Walter, their rebellion had a right little War Council. Walter knew the layout of the city capitol better than Keturah herself did, having fought alongside her father to create an orderly and just Albion prior to Logan's tyranny. But the retainer's strategy was steeped in old tradition, when men faced their foes fairly rather than resorting to more foul means as these new soldiers no doubt would. The Seer's expertise on the matter was immense. Walter would suggest, Dara would parry with the reaction the enemy would have. Walter would pose a new tactic and Dara would swifty rebut until a manageable conclusion and plan would be made. So it was between them, a deadly dance, of sorts, as they negated their way around a theoretical battlefield and tiptoed around the possibility of any unnecessary casualties.<p>

"Strange couple, aren't they?" Ben inquired, seating himself beside where she was meticulously cleaning her rifle.

"They seem to devise well," Keturah murmured, watching the two in the lantern-light. They were far too close to shore to risk any unnecessary luminescence. She could not help but remember the terrible internal wounds inflicted on Walter while in Aurora, could not withstand the threat of them being ripped open anew. Though healed, he still seemed to have age beyond his mortal years, as though part of his soul's life had been stolen from him.

Dara peered up from the table, his face cloaked in the Wraith's garment. All save the straight bridge of his nose was cloaked with shadows. She could not even see the eerie brightness of his eyes beneath the black of his hood.

"Indeed they do," Ben returned. "So, Princess. How about a drink when this is all over, hm? Or will you be too posh to make nice-like with an old soldier."

Keturah giggled. He'd made an invite similar to this once before, in a situation nearly as dire. She'd accepted it then. She had difficulty accepting it now. The fear of the people she may lose, the fear of what was to come if they were victorious weighed on her shoulders like a wet cloak.

"Princess," Ben murmured from her side.

She moved to glance to him, but her turning was interrupted by his lips on her cheek, warm, alive, consoling. Keturah smiled and nodded to communicate that she acknowledged his attempts to comfort her.

"We'll win this Ben," she whispered as Walter and Dara gave a final nod and the lantern was extinguished. "We must."

"Up the hill, Princess! Go!"

Ketuah hastened to comply, sprinting up the hill and past the boundaries put in place by Logan's guards to defend against attacks from the costal lines. Fires from Kalin's ships roared over her head, their heat scorching her, fueling her to hurry to be done. The sooner they got to the castle, the sooner they got to Logan the fewer would die.

"Keturah, your left!"

She spun and flung a fistful of fire toward the location. Instinct took hold. Twist, pause, aim, release the bolt of energy. It was terrifying and she had no desire to halt and watch as the bolt struck a barrel of ignition fluid for the mechanical ships and burst into a deadly cloud of metal daggers. People around her were screaming. People around her were dying. She had to push forward, she had to.

"Not too far, Princess," Dara said, having dispatched a number of soldiers ahead of them with is pistol. "You're no good to this rebellion dead. Control your anger. Cage your fear. Remember the plan."

Dara spun off to her side to engage a few more soldiers brandishing bayonets. Ben took his place as her guard. Though it pained her to do so, she slowed her steps, watching the progression of the destruction around her so that she would know when to move forward. The outskirts had fallen quickly – the citizens had no interest in contesting a rebellion lead by the martyr Princess. The guards were sparse, some even sympathetic or cowardly enough to defect toward the rebel cause. But they had hardly brushed the city center. What was to come would be worse, much worse.

Shadows she knew to be Dara's Wraiths waved them through the smoke and flames and toward the inner cantus of the city. The Sand Fury was nowhere to be seen. His calm voice was no longer present to remind her to control herself. But he was very much present. She could feel him in the gooseflesh raised on her skin, as though he were a static reminder in the air around her. The memories that threatened to assault her and shake her unsteady reserve and tenacity were kept at bay by the strength he instilled in her.

The fighting was less intense around these parts. Those that had been on guard had been silently slain by the Wraiths and all that remained was the charge of the castle. It had been agreed that Keturah would lead that charge, as an example of a Hero's courage to her people. The Princess would overcome her king brother. She would charge past the guards and fight with lead bullets and Willed fire. She would stare at death and laugh him into submission. She was her father's daughter and she would see her people through this.

On the raised dais leading to the central chamber of the castle stood a line of Logan's soldiers.

"Fire!" Sounded the order.

"Keturah-!" Ben had a moment to bark before the roar of dozens of rifles overtook his voice.

She felt the anger at her brother, remembered the pain that had come with Ellior, Swift and Krevan's death's, recalled the injustice inflicted by Reaver at her brother's order. It made her blood boil, her hands clench. The Will flowed to her, causing her marks to glow molten orange and her eyes to smolder. A bullet struck her shoulder, the mark a thumb's breadth from her vital core. She roared with the pain it brought, screamed with the anger that coursed through her. She was in control, if only just. Dara's static still remained with her. She allowed the pressure to build exponentially until she felt as though she would burst from containing it and collapse from carrying it. A wave of fire coursed from the ground beneath her, gaining momentum as it tore through the courtyard, unseated the shooting soldiers and scorched them into lifelessness. A few screamed as they were consumed. Most passed silently, only an eerie hiss escaping as their voice was engulfed in the inferno.

She marched forward, numbly stepping over the corpses, deaf to the chaos and aware only of the thundering of her own heart in her chest. She tore the sleeve of her tunic, wadding the fabric and using it as a tourniquet for the wound so that others would not notice the injury. The gooseflesh was unpleaseant, but she clung to it. Dara had been her instructor in all of this. He had killed before, had strategized all of this – the deaths were necessary. They would save more lives. She had to trust him. She had to trust herself. His static still clung to her. He was near.

The serving staff did not oppose her as she stepped into the hall. The few soldiers that had not been dispatched in the firing squad were easily removed with either a firebolt or a bullet. She had not drawn her blade. She would not allow them so near. Up the stairs she marched, toward the war room where she knew her brother would be, where she knew she would face him for perhaps the last time since he'd ordered the execution of Elliot.

Keturah calmly opened the large oak doors and stepped inside. Her brother sat tranquilly before a large fire, a glass in his long pale fingers containing an amber liquid she knew to be brandy.

"Keturah," he greeted her.

"Logan," she replied. "It's over."

He nodded and drained what was left in the glass. "So it would seem. I'm proud of you sister."

Logan moved to stand and Keturah's hand jumped to her rifle. She was ashamed of her own actions, ashamed that she was now peering down the barrel at her older brother, calculating a shot for his heart. Logan stood fully and regarded her, a mournful tilt to his brow. She thought fleetingly it might be sorrow for loosing the power he'd gained from his father's death, the sudden understanding that he'd lost all control. But the sight of herself in his eyes made her understand his sadness and she baulked, the riffle quivering in her grasp. She was not the naïve girl who had left this castle. Her hair had grown from when she'd shorn it, but it was ragged, awkward, full of dust and debris from exploding barrels and gunfire. Her heavy use of Will had resulted in markings burning places in to her skin and the soft flesh of a woman had turned into the hardened muscle of a warrior. She was a shadow of what he'd known to be his little sister. She terrified him.

The siblings stood as such for a long moment, Keturah with her barrel aimed at his breast and Logan standing resolute, terrified but accepting of whatever fate this strange was-sister had for him. Neither moved. Both gazed at each other, desperate to understand the path that had lead them from being the closest of friends to the most dire of enemies.

Keturh lowered the muzzle of her rifle, still trembling.

"Princess! What are you doing!?"

She hadn't realized that Ben had made it up to the war room and she cringed violently at the sound of his voice.

"Shoot him!" Ben demanded.

Keturah tensed at the suggestion, still eyeing Logan. He hadn't looked away from her. This man had ordered the execution of Elliot, her childhood friend and fiancé. He had been the orchestrator of Swift and Krevan's deaths. The atrocities he had committed upon his own people were exponentially worse than the crimes he'd committed in her own personal life. He deserved death.

"No."

"Keturah!"

"No!" She shouted, whirling on Ben. "I'll not shoot him."

"But Swift-!"

"Captain, stand down!" She snarled, narrowing her eyes at him, in no mood to engage in a battle of words with him at this moment. "I said no. Let him stand before his people, speak for himself, account for the crimes he's committed. He will be judged, I assure you."

"Why?" Ben bellowed back in return, marching forward aggressively toward Keturah. "He gave Swift death without trial! A death without honor!" He jutted an angry finger toward Logan. "Shoot him like the mad dog he is! If you don't shoot him I will-"

"Captain Finn!" Keturah roared back. "Remember your place!"

Ben scowled, tense and taut as he glowered at Logan, pausing just short of Keturah's reach.

"Captain Finn," Dara's stern voice reminded, stemming from the shadows created by the firelight. "Your princess ordered you to stand down."

Keturah could not help but feel a sense of relief seeing the Sand Fury's lanky form slip silently before Logan, taking up a defensive posture.

"Whose side are you on, Sand Fury?" Ben growled.

Dara's expression was lost beneath the cowl and hood. He did not respond. Instead, he tilted his head toward Keturah and inquired, "Orders, Princess?"

"Shackle him," she stated, glancing toward her brother. "Let him have a night down in the dungeons."

"More mercy than he deserves," Ben spat.

"Captain," Keturah barked. "That's enough out of you! Go back to the troops. Tell them victory has been secured and the King has been overthrown."

Ben's shoulders tensed and he glowered at Keturah. Her gaze returned his fiery one with a mirror of ice. She could not be brought to care. She was entirely too numb. She wanted this night to be over. And no matter how intense the blaze was behind Ben's gaze, she would not succumb to its heat. He was hurt as she'd been when Elliot had died. And in the moment of having to choose the people's life or his she wanted nothing more than her brother's death and suffering for what he'd made her do. Time and circumstance had changed that.

The Captain finally gave a piss-poor salute and stomped off to give report to the rag-tag army that had been put together.

"Logan," Dara said, now facing her brother. "Your hands, please."

He raised his hands without a fuss, gaze not deviating from Keturah as Dara applied shackles and bound his wrists together. He seemed deeply confused and more tortured by the decision she'd made than he did at the very real possibility of his own death. She did not sympathize. Death was a release, not a punishment. She would hear his excuses for his actions later. But not now. Not tonight. There were wounded to attend to, homes that were destroyed that needed to be rebuilt, a kingdom in turmoil to organize. Not tonight.

* * *

><p>Casualties were both minimal and devastating all at once. The number of dead consisted mostly of the soldiers who'd not defected toward the rebel cause. But the number of wounded were heavily represented among the underground forces Paige had mustered for the rebellion. What remained of the Swift Brigade had been minimally damaged to the point where they were capable enough to help the other wounded.<p>

Jammy, in a brilliant stroke of irony, had become the Swift Brigade's medic and effectively replaced Krevan. It was almost strange to see him not wounded as he shuffled around the makeshift hospice that had been made in the castle after the firefighting had settled down. She remembered making a speech to the castle staff here, before Elliot's death. The presence of it all so close reopened the old wound she'd believed to be healed. Her anger had fueled her through the fight, but the strength of the fire had burned away to the ashes of sorrow. The rebellion had been won…but Elliot was still gone. Swift and Krevan were dead. Perhaps some illogical part of her truly believed that if this small battle had been won it would somehow make their passing more tolerable. But it remained bitter on her tongue.

"Let's see you to your quarters, Princess," Walter murmured after she'd returned from aiding Jammy and the other nurses in the hospice. "You've had a long night."

She nodded and allowed the old retainer to lead her past the fine rugs and oaken shelves with all assortments of trophies and superfluous baubles that adorned the castle. She felt ragged and out of place. This castle and this finery had surrounded her as she grew up…now it seemed foreign and strange and completely unnecessary. The soft carpet beneath her filthy boots was odd, as were the chambers she'd grown up in. The bed looked entirely too soft, the windows too open to the outside world – the moon seemed as though it were leering down on her – and the vanity too impractical. This was the world she'd left and the world she was to return to.

"I bid you goodnight, Princess," Walter stated.

"Goodnight, Walter," She responded, glad that the old soldier understood her need for solitude and privacy at this moment.

When he'd closed the door, she simply stood in the middle of the room, the numbness after finding Logan slowly dripping from her fingers as she thawed. Wetness came to her eyes and she slid to the window to look out at the courtyard at the soldiers being divided into shifts led by Ben. They would be repairing the city after the damage they'd wrought fighting Logan's guards. They would be working with the people while she sat playing politics she did not understand. This had been a mistake. She was not fit for the throne.

Gooseflesh raised on her skin as a familiar, comforting static resonated through the air. She smiled fleetingly, but did not turn. "Trying to sneak up on me, Dara?"

"Not intentionally," he returned, his voice from above and behind her.

"Do the soldiers need something?" She murmured without facing him. She could see his shadowy reflection well enough in the glass as she looked down.

He chuckled, the sound deep and genuine from his chest. "No. They've had enough of your attention for today. You need to care for yourself."

She whirled on him, glowering into the darkness that concealed his face. "I'll not be treated like a delicate flower to be kept stowed and protected in a box!"

"It was not what I was suggesting," he returned calmly. He dipped his head toward her. "But that wound needs attention. Your shoddy patch job will only result in infection."

Keturah was taken aback. She thought she'd done well to hide the wound from others, as none of the soldier's she'd bandaged or applied poultices to had noticed. Neither had Ben or Walter.

Dara nodded to her bed. "Sit."

She did not follow his order. Instead she reached toward him hesitantly, making her movements slow and subtle as though he were a wounded, frightened animal. Dara did not move and so she completed the motion, tugging his cowl from his face and rolling it back into the collar of his dark tunic. She then removed his hood, unshadowing his gaze and unveiling the fierce horns that curled around his ears and sharpened his features. His brow was tilted slightly into a frown; he wasn't angry, just curious and assessing. She did not like interacting with him as a faceless specter.

"Your eyes practically glow in the moonlight," she stated aloud. "I remember in the mercenary camp…when you were 'Will' and not 'Dara'. They made you easy to spot, as easily as one might see a lightning flash in the darkness."

"Hence the hood," he stated tersely, almost defensively. "Sit."

This time she complied, seating herself on the bed while Dara knelt and gently pushed back her filthy, bloodied rawhide vest and the tunic beneath it. He was delicate in his operations, revealing just enough of her so that he might further examine the wound. His fingers were cool and dry and soothed the enflamed flesh around her wound as he withdrew her wadded piece of tunic and examined her shoulder.

"You can't feel that?" he inquired incredulously.

"No," Keturah murmured, looking back out the window. "It feels chilled, like hands without gloves on a winter day."

"Hm." He acknowledged, his cool fingers leaving her shoulder. He stepped across the room to retrieve the bowl from the washbasin and the delicate monogrammed cloths with it.

"You'll ruin those," she said with a chuckle.

"They're expendable," he replied, sliding his hand beneath her tunic and jerkin once more and beginning to clean the blood from her flesh delicately and gently.

She watched him as he worked, welcoming the distraction he provided from the soldiers outside. She'd never analyzed him the way she had Ben, never saw him truly as a man. He'd frightened her from the start, clothed in shadows as he was, pushing and prodding her along a path she'd not otherwise have taken. But from a ghostly haunt he'd become her mentor. This wraith, this Sand Fury had been the only one to see her cry, had been the only witness to her periods of weakness yet did not seem to think any less of her.

She saw the set of his shoulders and his body – she had not realized before how tightly and rigidly he held himself, how he was always maintained unyielding control, always stringent in his form. Keturah had never seen him relaxed. He always seemed focused upon something far away in the distance, something she could not grasp. He had told her he was a Seer – she supposed those were the things he was understanding. His was a vision plagued by ghosts and shadows of what will be, what might be, what is, and what might have been. She could not imagine the turmoil wrought upon his mind, how he straightened things out into a comprehensible gathering of images enough to guide her on the path to the throne. Without him, she'd have failed by now.

The tears came then, but she was silent about them, turning her gaze from Dara and to her hands in her lap. He had removed the bullet at this point and was working at mending her skin. She dared not quiver with sobs and destroy his work. Instead, she allowed the tears to pool and drip, to blur her vision. It was her method of coping with all that had occurred, she supposed. She cried for Elliot, for Swift and Krevan. She cried for Logan and for herself. She would not wallow in self-misery, but for now she would use this catharsis so that she might stand and face her people.

"Finished," Dara murmured as he tactfully replaced her vest and tunic returned the bloodied water and linens to their places for the maids to retrieve.

Her shoulders started shaking then and she cursed her weakness, wishing Dara would leave so that he would not see more, but hoping that he would stay and calm her with his presence as he had in the past.

Dara poised himself on the edge of the bed, close but not too close. He did not watch her as she cried, providing her with privacy while offering silent support. He let her weep, allowed her time. He did not try and stop her nor did he attempt to console her. She appreciated it.

"You should sleep, Princess," Dara murmured when her tears and sniffles and quivering had stopped.

"How do you do it?" She demanded, her voice harsh with crying. "How do you stay so calm and resolute through this? How do you stay silent despite all that you've suffered?"

Dara furrowed his brows perplexedly. "Princess…"

Keturah sat forward and wrapped her arms around him before he could have a moment to protest, tucking her chin up over his shoulder and pressing him tightly against her. She could feel her thundering heartbeat echoing back to her against the hard leather of his jerkin and heard more than felt the sharp intake of breath as a result of her actions. She inhaled deeply against his neck. He smelled of leather, soot, and man. She exhaled in a long, slow breath and clung more tightly to him. Dara did not move, did not reciprocate and remained as taut and stiff as a board.

She pulled away slightly to hazard a glance up at him from beneath her lashes. The glowing of his light eyes had darkened slightly with smothered emotion. Whatever he was experiencing he would not let her see. And oh, she wished he would. She wanted to be the reassuring one, to comfort him, to help relieve the rigidness in him.

Without thinking, she pressed the smallest amount of pressure to his shoulders to raise herself up the minute amount needed to place her lips overtop his. A spark echoed through her, as though the static that disrupted the air when he was present had coalesced and moved through her from the simple contact.

"Keturah," he growled, the air moving out in a rush against her mouth. But nothing more escaped them save her name. She heard fear in his voice. She had never known this man to be fearful.

"Shh," she murmured and placed her lips on his again gently.

His reaction was violent. His hands and arms came around her, drawing her against him and his fingers finding the nape of her neck and coaxing her mouth open with a gasp. His mouth claimed hers, then, and the sweet, exotic taste of him filled her and she was eager to drink and receive more. She met his tongue, breathing hot air against his cheek out her nose. She'd never received a kiss such as this. Elliot had been shy and chaste. This…this was something else entirely.

Then, just as quickly as he had held her, he released her, practically flinging her away from him as though she'd burned him. She gasped with the loss of warmth and support and tumbled onto the bed as Dara hastily stood and took two long strides back. She caught a glimpse of what he had attempted to hide before, saw the fear and trepidation that made his eyes bright, and saw a spark that darkened them and sent heat to her loins.

"Dara?" she inquired, frightful that she had done something terribly wrong.

"Go to sleep, Princess." Was the order.


End file.
